From the Circling Sky
by misqueue
Summary: For all that Kurt's wanted a boyfriend, actually having one is strange, as is having a new stepbrother. Canon set S2 summer. Written for teiledesganzen's prompt: orange, curiosity, the inside of a car. Title from the lyrics to Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly". Warnings for mature themes and sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

It's the last Wednesday afternoon of Kurt's junior year, and he's standing in the Lima Bean parking lot next to Blaine's car. Blaine leans upon the open driver's side door, smiling at Kurt over it. Of course, Kurt's smiling back, putting off the inevitable, 'drive safely' and 'see you later' (His lips still refuse to utter the words, 'good bye' and he hopes, with Blaine, they always will). So he keeps smiling, widely enough and hard enough to feel it ache in his cheeks.

"Do you have much homework?" Blaine asks him. He's stalling too. They already talked about homework over their coffees and shared apple spice muffin.

Kurt shrugs and, instead of answering the question, tilts his head and says, "I wish I could kiss you right now."

That makes Blaine blush and grin and glance down in such an unabashedly pleased way, it makes Kurt also wish he had a better repertoire of flirtation strategies with his boyfriend. Now that they are boyfriends, the way Blaine responds to Kurt's attention is exhilarating and gratifying and, still, a little bit surreal.

"Me too," says Blaine. When he looks back up, the early evening sun is warm in his eyes, enriching their whiskey brown to amber. Kurt wishes they could go home together, but they can't on a weeknight. It's almost summer though.

Kurt hitches his bag on his shoulder, twists his torso to try to break the reluctance of his feet to move away, because he does need to get going. "Call me when you get home?" he asks.

"I will," Blaine says. And then he adds so easily, the ease of it makes Kurt a little dizzy: "I love you."

"I love you, too," Kurt says, and the lightness in his head becomes a lightness in his heart when he finally makes himself turn toward his own car. He still feels Blaine's physical presence drag at him, but if he focuses on the anticipation of the next time they'll meet, it's easier to go.

"See you tomorrow!" Blaine calls after him.

Kurt looks back over his shoulder. "Same time, same place," he promises. One of the best things about having a boyfriend is knowing there's going to be a next time. He doesn't have to live on scraps or put his heart back in its box. It's taking him a while to get used to it.

#

The road back has Kurt driving into the setting sun. It's hot on his face and chest, and it glares in his eyes. He flips down the shade, but the bloated orange sun has already sunk below it. He keeps his eyes on the road and dials the AC on full. The cold blast on his skin is welcome enough, but it doesn't cool him much beyond that.

Soon, he's driving, feeling too hot and too cold all at once. The contrast makes him queasy, so when his phone bleeps a text notification, Kurt gratefully pulls off the road to read it, wonders what thought's interrupted Blaine's drive today. It's usually something sweet: a message to tell Kurt he had fun this afternoon, or how much he liked Kurt's scarf today, or how he misses him already. Kurt smiles and wakes his phone.

But it's not from Blaine, it's from Finn. Kurt rolls down the window and reaches for the bottle of water tucked between the seats. It's been there all day, so it's gone warm and vaguely plastic tasting. He drinks it anyway, and it helps settle his stomach.

Apparently Finn wants him to stop by the garage on his way home: he has a surprise for Kurt. Kurt texts back an "Okay," caps the water, and returns to the road. Tries to imagine what manner of surprise Finn may have for him. Last time it was the collusion with Blaine and the Warblers to perform a farewell for him at McKinley. Kurt doubts it'll be anything like that. A late birthday present perhaps.

#

It's dusk by the time Kurt gets to the garage. He drives around to park in the back where Finn has the exterior floodlights turned on. Clouds of summer bugs swarm in the wide beams of light. Kurt flaps one hand at his neck when he hears the high pitched hum of a mosquito. "This couldn't have waited 'til tomorrow?" Kurt calls out as he ducks under one of the half-raised bay doors.

Finn stands next to the (presumed) surprise. It's rusting through a hideous mural of psychedelic daisies. "On my god, Finn, please tell me you didn't buy me that old hippie plumber's van."

"What? Oh, no, it's not a _van_." Finn grins. "It's a camper! A vintage 1975 Volkswagen Westfalia." Finn gestures in grandiose asymmetry: the world's most awkward spokesmodel. "It has a pop top!"

Kurt shoos a mosquito from his arm and eyes the technicolor bomb. "I know you feel bad for forgetting my birthday but this is really _not_—"

"Dude," Finn interrupts. "No, it's not for you. Me and Puck went halves on it. We're gonna do a road trip this summer."

"Okay, so you texted me because...?"

"Well, the motor's good and all, but the body needs work, and the inside is kind of trashed, so I figured if Puck helped me with the bodywork, maybe you could help me with the interior, 'cause you know, you're really good at decorating and design stuff."

Kurt blinks at Finn. "You're actually asking me to decorate a space? _For you_?"

"I thought it would be fun?" Finn says with a wince of nervousness. "And I know you'd do an awesome job."

"That's..." Kurt trails off as he loses his breath. He's well over his crush on Finn, so far over it that it's absurd to have a sudden weird flutter in his gut. "A really big project." Kurt finishes. "I already have plans for my summer."

"We've got plenty of time," Finn says. "Please at least think about it? I can always help you with some of your stuff, too."

"I... I will. I'll think about it, Finn," Kurt says.


	2. Chapter 2

"Have you thought about it?" Finn asks Kurt late Thursday evening. Kurt looks up from his notebook and sets down his phone; his text reply to Blaine is only half-typed and thoroughly mangled by auto-correct. He's been doggedly fighting with his phone to send flirty texts to Blaine in French (he's convinced himself it counts as study). It's been fun making Blaine translate them. The more idiomatic the better. "Did you just call me a cabbage?" was Blaine's last reply.

Finn hovers in the open door to his bedroom holding a plate in one hand, a glass in the other. "I made you a grilled cheese," Finn says. "With tomatoes, right? And orange juice."

"You put orange juice on the sandwich?"

"What?"

Kurt smiles and stretches his arms over his head until he feels his upper back loosen. Even with the diversion of texting Blaine, his brain's going numb studying vocabulary for his French final. Finn's timing's not bad. "I hope you realize your attempts at persuasion are not very subtle."

"Yeah, well, I thought you might need a pick me up. If you're pulling an all-nighter."

"_D'accord_," Kurt says, drops an arm out to the side in welcome: "_Entrez-vous_."

"Cool," Finn says and comes in. He sets the juice on the corner of Kurt's desk and hands him the plate. Then he goes to sit on the edge of Kurt's bed.  
"_Merci_," Kurt says and turns sideways in his chair.

"_De nada_," says Finn. They share a grin. It's becoming a thing between them, sort of, these multi-lingual conversational tidbits: Kurt using pieces of French Finn may recognize, while Finn reciprocates with Spanish. Kurt's not sure they're teaching each other much, but it's increasingly, weirdly _comfortable_. Like having Finn casually sitting on his bed.

"I have been thinking about it," Kurt says. He picks up half the sandwich. The processed cheese oozes orange between the bread, and a slice of tomato squeezes out. Kurt pushes it back in and sucks the grease off his finger. "Helping you with the van." He's not a fan of processed cheese, always makes his own grilled cheese with an aged white cheddar. This is the first time Finn's made him food more complex than opening a bag of chips. Ulterior motive or not, it's a nice gesture.

"Camper," says Finn.

"Camper, fine," Kurt says. "There's not much camper left inside though. It's going to require carpentry, too, not just..." Kurt flutters his fingertips to indicate the easy, surface stuff. "... paint and soft furnishings." He takes a bite of the sandwich. The cheese is, predictably, like milky tasting melted plastic.

Finn watches Kurt chew. "Can you do it?" he asks.

"Of course I _can_, I took shop," Kurt says around the gooey cheese stubbornly coating his tongue. He swallows and reaches for the glass of juice. He doesn't add that it was only because it was mandatory in Middle School, and he hated the band saw and only got a C plus. He can do this project if he chooses to. "But, I guess, I want to know what sort of things you and Puck have in mind for it. I can't do a faithful restoration on your budget. It's going to have to be something new."

"Just, you know, something _cool_."

"Right," Kurt says, tries to imagine what constitutes 'cool' for Puck and Finn: imagines black velvet walls, a big screen TV, and pin ups of bikini models. "Can you at least give me a list of the features you want?"

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

"I'm still thinking. I need information to make my decision."

"Okay," Finn says and stands. "I'll talk to Puck."

"All right," Kurt says; he turns back to his open notebook. "Let me know, okay?"

"Sure," Finn says. "_Buena suerte_ with the studying." Finn moves to leave.

Kurt picks up his phone, says to Finn, "Thanks for the study break."

He doesn't return to his French books immediately, but instead types a new text to Blaine: "Given the context of camper interiors, the intersection of Finn and Puck's aesthetic taste, what do you think 'cool' means?"

#

The final school bell of the year rings on Friday, and the classrooms and hallways of McKinley High erupt into jubilant chaos. Kurt lets himself be dragged toward the exit to the parking lot between Mercedes and Tina.

"Celebratory mall run?" Mercedes asks.

"Hell, yes," says Tina. "This summer needs to get started. Preferably with new shoes."

"I can't," says Kurt. The words surprise him as they come off his tongue. After school mall excursions with Tina and Mercedes are a celebratory mainstay, have been since early his sophomore year. Something he missed while at Dalton. But today he can't. He doesn't even want to, which is strange, because he would expect to feel at least a little bit conflicted. He doesn't.

Mercedes and Tina stop and look at him.

He can't even _fake_ conflicted, cannot stop the grin overtaking his face. "I have a _date_ with Blaine. I have to get ready and I haven't decided what to wear yet."

Mercedes raises an eyebrow. Tina narrows her eyes and says. "Kurt, today is our thing, it's like a tradition. You don't see me ditching you guys to hang out with Mike."

"But it's not our usual after school stuff. It's a date. Maybe our first proper one." Kurt doesn't like to count Prom; for all the ways it ultimately went right, there was too much that went wrong for him to want to count it. "He's planned something—a surprise. He's coming to pick me up and—"

"Let me guess, Breadstix and a movie?" Mercedes says. "You two have been going on that 'date' practically since the day you met."

"Maybe? I don't know. It's just _different_ now. Please tell me you understand."

Mercedes rolls her eyes and Tina shakes her head, but Kurt can tell they're both almost smiling.

"You never learn, do you, boo? Bros before hos," Mercedes says facetiously.

"Wouldn't this be more like hos before bros? Technically?" Kurt says.

"Wait. Who's calling whom a ho?" Tina says, clearly joking, but Kurt makes not answering his opportunity to leave.

#

The doorbell rings at six-thirty, just as Kurt's putting the finishing touches on his hair, coaxing it a little higher off his forehead with his brush and giving it all a final spray to set the style. Kurt hears the murmur of Blaine's and his Dad's voices and laughter. They sound easy, friendly; and Kurt slowly lets out the breath he's been holding. It's new for his Dad too, Kurt having a boyfriend. But his Dad likes Blaine, despite their terrible first meeting.

Kurt looks at himself in the mirror. His hands seek every bit of accidental asymmetry and inadvertent rumple in his layers. He's wearing a distressed white linen shirt and a new tangerine colored cardigan to celebrate the start of his summer. His jeans are a saturated dark wash to coordinate with the shibori indigo neckerchief knotted at his throat. Its pattern resembles zebra stripes or feathers.

He fiddles with the tails of the knot and stops there, keeps it simple. Blaine had said the dress code was casual. Kurt resists adding a brooch or a sweep of sheer lip gloss. They'll have more dates to dress for; he can hold some flourishes in reserve. He wonders what Blaine's wearing as he bends to lace up his shoes (olive green suede oxfords). He's still not got a strong sense of Blaine's personal style. Still sees him in his Dalton uniform more often than not.

When Kurt comes into the lounge downstairs, he finds his Dad and Blaine sitting, chatting. Blaine stands. He looks amazing in well-tailored gray trousers and boat shoes. His ankles are bare. He wears a navy blue racing jacket over a red and white striped henley. It's like a retro deconstruction of his Dalton uniform. His Dad looks on with a smile as Blaine offers Kurt a bouquet of tulips. They look like flames, deep orange with yellow edging the petals. "You look nice," Blaine says, and Kurt catches a glimpse of something more than warmth in Blaine's gaze.

"So do you," Kurt replies, thrilled and pleasantly bemused and eager to find where the evening takes them.

#

They drive east, toward Westerville, and the sun sets behind them. Kurt chews his lip and doesn't ask where they're going, since it's clearly not the Lima mall and Breadstix. Blaine's a little quiet, attending to the road. Nervous maybe. It's novel being a passenger in Blaine's car as it grows dark: the soft orange glow of the instrument panel, the scent of Blaine's cologne bright and strong in the confined space, the freshly shaved line of his jaw illuminated by the headlights of oncoming traffic. Kurt wonders what Blaine has planned. Wonders if this is what going on a date feels like. The quiet expands between them, swollen with anticipation.

Eventually Blaine speaks. "You want to put some music on?" he asks. "My iPod's there."

"Oh, sure," Kurt says, and reaches for where it's tucked next to the hand brake. He plugs it in to the stereo and dials through Blaine's playlists until he finds the one with most of the songs they like to sing together.

Singing in the car is a thing they've been doing since the first time they drove anywhere together, but in this context—wondering and unsure what's ahead for the evening—it's a bizarre juxtaposition. Kurt can't quell the flutter in his belly as their voices rise and fall around the engine thrum. The snug new fit of Kurt's cardigan across his shoulders is new; the synthetic velour upholstery soft-prickling his restless fingertips is familiar.

#

They end up at a dated but tidy strip mall, pulling into a parking space in front of an illuminated orange and green plastic sign proclaiming the venue's name: Mama's Wok.

"Well, it's not Breadstix," Kurt says. The wide windows reveal a bright, stark interior dominated by a broad backlit menu board.

"No," Blaine says, smiles self-consciously as he keys off the ignition and the car falls silent. "I, um, I know this might not be what you expected, but the food is really good. Like, _really_ good."

"Okay..." Kurt says, tries to keep the skepticism from his voice. He likes Chinese food, but this place looks a bit... divey. He'd been thinking they'd be going somewhere romantic, with candles and tablecloths and violin music. This is not really that.

"At least it used to be," Blaine continues. "I haven't been in a while. My brother used to bring me when I was younger."

Kurt blinks and looks at Blaine. "Brother? Did I know you have a brother?"

"Oh, I don't think so? I don't talk about him much. He's in California, we're not that close anymore. He left home when I was eight."

"So how do you know this place is still good?"

Blaine looks at Kurt for a few breaths. "Do you want to go somewhere else? We can. There's a Red Lobster up the road, and, um, a Pizza Hut, I think."

"No, no, this is fine. I'll trust you and your memory." Kurt smiles and pops open his door.

#

Inside, they sit in a booth with cracked Crayola sea green vinyl and gold flecked Formica table tops. The fluorescent lighting doesn't flatter his skin tone, Kurt knows. But the place is fastidiously clean, and the smells from the kitchen are good: ginger and garlic and sesame—no trace of rancid grease or acrid smoking oil.

"May I ask you something?" Kurt says as he pulls his chopsticks from their paper sleeve. They've ordered already. Steamed dumplings and hot and sour soup to start, and then two main dishes to share. Blaine says they should have time to get ice cream for dessert before the movie (the title of which Blaine has yet to reveal, for it is also a surprise).

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay, so this boyfriends thing is still pretty new to me."

Blaine smiles. "Me too."

"Lately, I've been feeling kind of weird? I don't mean bad weird, but, hmm..."

"Hmm?"

"Like something's decompressing—like _I'm_ decompressing. Does that make sense?"

"Because of me? Or... us?"

"I don't know," Kurt says, sighs. "Maybe it's just the end of the school year."

"It has been eventful, huh?"

"Well, yeah. Look, at the start of the year there was me and my Dad. That was it, really. I had some friends, but no one really close, you know? So when my Dad got sick— And that was a big mess of awful." Kurt says, "Let me tell you, even the friends who're fine with me being gay, weren't necessarily okay with me being an atheist."

"Did I know you were an atheist?" Blaine asks, smiling. Teasing, really, because they have talked religion (or lack of) before. Those were among the early, stay up talking 'til three AM phone conversations. Blaine's agnostic; Kurt—affectionately—tries not to judge his lack of commitment.

Kurt smiles. "Before I met you? I don't really recognize that version of myself any more. I do remember feeling so lonely and frustrated and hopeless, but now?"

"Now you don't."

"Now I don't." Kurt says and reaches one hand to the middle of the table, palm turned up. Blaine slides his hand into Kurt's. "It's not just you. I have Carole and Finn now, too. And Rachel. But you? You're extra special."

"Am I?" Blaine's smile broadens to a grin, and he squeezes Kurt's hand. The question in Blaine's eyes is bigger than his words. Kurt doesn't know how to read it yet, wonders what it means, how he's meant to answer. It makes him giddy nervous, pleasantly so, anticipating more this strange decompressing of himself with Blaine.

"Yes," says Kurt. The waitress is bringing a tray their way, so Kurt retrieves his hand and drops his napkin to his lap.

The dumplings are incredible, aromatic and savory and so fresh. Kurt nearly burns his mouth in his enthusiasm. Blaine winces sympathetically.

"So tell me," Blaine says, one too-hot dumpling dangling from his chopsticks, dripping sauce.

"Mmm?" Kurt prompts around the edge of the dumpling he's nibbling gingerly.

"How am I..." Blaine leans forward, his eyes dark even in the bright light, his smile inviting. "...extra special to you?"

"Oh," Kurt says, reaches for his glass of Sprite and swallows a mouthful of lemony cold carbonation. That wasn't a rhetorical question after all. "Well," Kurt starts. "There's your many good qualities, which I doubt you need me to list—"

"You can if you want to."

Kurt snorts a laugh. "We'd be here all night, honey. And I might have to call in Wes for backup once I'd lost my voice."

"Oh, I'm 'honey' now?"

"Yes you are," Kurt says primly, stifling his grin, and then Blaine's doing this _thing_ he does, when he's got Kurt's focus upon him, it's like his eyes are—

Every simile or metaphor Kurt can think of sounds like the most hackneyed sort of sentimental poetry, but now he understands all those comparisons to stars and galaxies and the universe when looking into a beloved's eyes. The way Blaine looks at him makes Kurt feel lost and safe at the same time. Warm and excited and happy and right on the verge of something enormous and new and wonderfully terrifying. Maybe that's what it is, Kurt thinks. "It's the way you love me, I guess. That's how."

Blaine's mouth is full of dumpling, but he raises his eyebrows and nods an unspoken 'go on'.

So Kurt tries. "It's like I'm always aware of you now, or that feeling I have of you. I don't mean just stuff like daydreaming about the next time we see each other. It's more like there's this warmth or safety. Even when I'm lying in bed thinking about you, and I can feel the distance between us, it's like..." Kurt trails off, reaches for another dumpling. He's not sure how to explain the shape of Blaine's love, the way it nestles against his own heart.

"You lie in bed and think of me?" Blaine's voice is lower. Kurt looks up and finds Blaine's smile has turned the tiniest bit more flirtatious.

"Oh!" Kurt says, too loudly as he understands what Blaine's thought he's meant. He quiets himself to a more private volume. "I don't mean... like. Oh, _god_, Blaine. No, I don't mean it like that. I don't think about you and—" Kurt can't finish the sentence, can't even punctuate his meaning with a gesture. Instead he drops his dumpling to his plate and then his face into his hands. He can feel his skin burning, inside and out.

"Hey." Blaine says affectionately, and his fingers wrap around one of Kurt's wrists and tug. "It's okay."

"I really don't—" Kurt doesn't budge.

He hears Blaine chuckle. "It's okay if you do."

"But I _don't_." (Except he has. Sometimes he replays the kisses they've shared while he touches himself. Kurt hopes there's enough of a technicality there between 'do' and 'has done' not to make him a liar.)

"All right, then. But it would be okay with me if you did."

Kurt is not going to ask Blaine if he does. Kurt's not sure what he would do with the information. Spontaneously combust most likely.

"Kurt, hey,' Blaine says, sounding a little concerned now. "Are you okay?"

Kurt nods and drops his hands. It still feels like there's a fire beneath his cheeks. "Yeah, I just..."

"Yeah," Blaine says. "I know, and I wasn't assuming anything. I'm sorry. I was just playing."

"Okay, that's fine. I'm just..." Kurt shrugs and picks up his chopsticks. The waitress brings their soup.

Blaine still seems amused, but not at Kurt's expense. "It's fine, Kurt, really. I mean, I _like_ the thought that you lie in bed awake and think of me. Because you're right. The way you love me? I feel different now, too. Like I'm brand new but everything around me is exactly the same, so it's weird. I feel like it should be obvious to everyone, but they're all just the same too.

"That's why I wanted to go to a different restaurant with you tonight. So we'd have something new right along with us," Blaine says.

All the candles and violins in the state couldn't be more romantic. "I really like that," Kurt says.

"Good," Blaine says, "because I really like you."

#

On the drive back to Kurt's house, Kurt tips his head back against the headrest and looks at Blaine's profile. His lips are relaxed, his eyes intent on the road. Behind his ear, his hair curls. "I really liked the movie," Kurt says.

"Oh, I'm glad! I wasn't sure if was your thing, but, I hoped you would. Like it."

"You sold it right," Kurt says. "At its heart, it was a tragic romance between Erik and Charles. Beautiful, but tragic, and not what I expected from a comic book movie." It's not a film Kurt would have chosen for himself, but he's glad Blaine's showing him new things. He's been in his cocoon of familiar and routine for so long, breaking free is exciting.

Ahead the traffic light turns yellow. Blaine slows and stops. They're approaching Lima's suburbs. There are streetlights now, gilding the cars in ochre light. Blaine turns to Kurt, drops one hand from the wheel to find Kurt's. "I knew you'd get it." He smiles. Kurt smiles back, and they stay like that, Kurt running his thumb over Blaine's knuckles, looking at each other with soft gazes until the light turns green.

Before he lets go to take the wheel again, Blaine takes Kurt's hand and rests it on his thigh. Kurt returns Blaine's questioning look with a shaky smile and keeps his hand where Blaine's placed it. Kurt spreads and relaxes his fingers, and his fingertips slide over the warm twill of Blaine's trousers. He can feel the flex of Blaine's quads under his palm as the car accelerates, and it's hard to breathe. Kurt wonders how Blaine's going to kiss him goodnight.


	3. Chapter 3

Up the winding concrete path, Blaine walks Kurt to his front door. The heat of the day has lingered, and the buzzing song of cicadas pulses in the nighttime stillness. Kurt hesitates in the pale cone of light cast upon the stoop. He looks at Blaine, who stands with his hands in his pockets, his expression expectant but uncertain. Insects spiral and zoom about them, like dozens of miniature dogfights. Across the street, the windows of several homes are still illuminated. This isn't the place for an intimate moment, no matter how traditional an ending to a date a kiss on the doorstep may be. Kurt takes Blaine's hand and tugs. "Come inside so you can kiss me good night?" he asks.

"Yes," Blaine says and follows Kurt through the door.

It's dark in the house but for the glow of the lamp on the hall table; silent but for the rustle of their movement and the tick of the clock on the wall. Kurt shuts the door quietly and turns toward Blaine just as Blaine reaches for him. Warm and thrilling, Blaine's hand is upon his skin. Blaine's thumb rests against Kurt's jaw, his fingers curl around the back of his neck, and Kurt's lungs halt. It feels like his heart stops, too. Just like the very first time. Just like every first kiss since.

Blaine's so close, his breath is hot upon Kurt's lips, humid and coffee scented. Blaine holds still, hovering it seems, elongating the moment. He speaks softly, "You had fun tonight?"

"I did," Kurt whispers.

"Me too," Blaine says, and he leans in. Kurt closes his eyes.

That first contact of their lips, dry and soft, with barely any pressure—just breath and surface—it only lasts a microsecond, maybe less, but it remains the most world shifting sensation Kurt knows: that instant they connect right before it becomes an actual kiss.

Then comes the rush. The bottom drops out of his stomach, and, with a soft whimper, Kurt feels his whole body bend into Blaine's. He relaxes and parts his lips against the press of Blaine's mouth. Velvet breath, heat—oh, god, the _heat_—the delirious slip of Blaine's tongue, the delicious hum Blaine makes—as if _Kurt_ himself is delicious—as his hand slides up the back of Kurt's neck and into his hair. Blaine reaches deeper into the kiss, and Kurt yields and opens. His scalp tingles beneath the massaging pressure of Blaine's fingertips, his knees sag, and his heart resumes with a terrific _thud_.

Another shift, and Kurt's reoriented himself, pushing his mouth back against Blaine's, his hands upon Blaine now too, sliding under his jacket and splaying across his ribs, about to gather up the fine cotton and _pull_—

Then Kurt hears footsteps upstairs, approaching the stairwell, and then the light over the stairs comes on. "That you back, Kurt?" his Dad calls out. Fortunately, he doesn't come down.

Kurt releases Blaine and breaks the kiss, steps back with a wry smile. Blaine returns the smile with a shrug. Kurt finds enough breath to reply, "Yes, Dad."

"Is Blaine there?"

"Yes, sir," Blaine says. "I'm here."

"We were just saying good night," Kurt says, a little petulant for the ill-timed interruption. Which he's certain was entirely on purpose.

"Thanks for getting him home on time," his Dad says.

Kurt rolls his eyes.

"You're welcome," Blaine says, his smile turning amused as he watches Kurt.

_'What?'_ Kurt mouths at Blaine.

Blaine shakes his head and just grins.

"Do you want more coffee? Or tea?" Kurt asks Blaine, loud enough for his Dad to hear too. "Before you drive back?"

"Uh," Blaine glances at his watch, sighs, and looks back at Kurt with regret. "No, I can't. If I'm going to get myself home before curfew, I need to get going."

"Drive safe, Blaine. Good night," his Dad says, and then Kurt hears his footsteps retreating back down the hall.

Kurt tilts his head and pouts. He takes Blaine's hand in a loose grip. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry," Blaine says more softly, reaches up to touch Kurt's face with his free hand. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I don't know... Will you?" Kurt asks with an arched eyebrow and (what he hopes is) a flirtatious smile.

"Yes," Blaine says. "I'll come around lunchtime." He leans in to place a kiss upon Kurt's cheekbone, near his ear, and then he skims his lips back farther and whispers ticklishly, "You are so adorable."

Kurt shivers and bites down on a titter. "And _you're_ very charming," he murmurs against Blaine's skin.

Blaine pulls back, his expression composed despite the color on his cheeks. He speaks at a more normal volume. "Good night, Kurt. Thank you for a wonderful evening."

"You too. Good night, honey. Text me when you get home?"

"I will."

Kurt follows Blaine out onto the porch. Watches as he gets in his car, waves as he pulls out of the driveway, and stands there until Blaine's taillights disappear around the corner. Blaine leaves him aching in the most peculiar and pleasant way, like this restless, frustrated desire is its own worthy goal.

As he lies in bed waiting for sleep, Kurt holds tightly to his spare pillow. The evening replays in his mind.

#

He wakes far too early for a Saturday, given how much he didn't sleep last night. The buzz of Blaine's company and touch still seethes beneath his skin. His head feels off, vacant and stuffy at the same time. He grabs his dressing gown and goes downstairs to make coffee. No one else is up. Barefoot, he takes his coffee outside, sits on the wicker _chaise longue_ and watches the last peachy blush of sunrise morph into blue.

The air is fresh and dewy, the brisk coolness of dawn warming quickly. Kurt's feet are cold, so he folds them beneath himself and listens to the mockingbird singing from the top of the aspen tree near the fence. In the morning sun, its new leaves are bright, the white of its trunk stark. It doesn't seem that long ago he was sitting out here on one of the last warm autumn afternoons, relaxing after a day of unloading boxes from the U-Haul. The aspen tree's leaves had fluttered orange and gold in the breeze. He'd only known Blaine a few weeks, but he was already becoming essential to Kurt. He'd snapped a photo of the tree with his phone, texted it to Blaine: with the message, "Autumn colors at the new house".

#

That first day after school ends always feels strangely empty. There's no exam to be studying for. Kurt zones out in the shower. He takes his time dressing, inspired by the morning: sky blue short-sleeved button up, McQueen scarf with the sherbert orange skulls, silver gray walking shorts, and his new Ana Locking deconstructed shoe sandals in baby blue. He changes cologne, likes to mark the beginning of his summer break with something new: an olfactory signature for the months of long days and daydreams. Kurt unboxes the blue glass bottle and spritzes the fresh woodsy melon scent of Eternity: Summer at his throat. He'll head to the garage for the morning, take some photos of the camper, make some sketches. See if he's inspired.

#

Saturdays the garage doesn't open until ten AM, so Kurt's got some solitude in which to work. He opens up the camper to survey the damage. It's a mess. He's pretty sure there's nothing original about the stained and dusty mud brown carpet covering the floor and extending up the walls, glued to nearly every vacant surface. The convertible bench seat has been taken out to accommodate lengths of pipe, but the guy still had it, was happy to give it to Finn when he inquired about it. It's lying on its back in the rear of the space. The old plaid fabric is faded and torn, with dirty foam pushing out of the rents. The kitchen fixtures are long gone, replaced with stacked plastic bins for storage. Kurt peels back a bit of loose headliner to see if any of the original paint remains. He finds brilliant orange.

A quick Google search on his phone informs him the color is Fiesta Orange, and he notes the codes Finn and Puck will need to match it. Then Kurt opens all the bay doors to let in sunlight and starts moving shop lights so he can get some good photos of the interior. He'll need to take some measurements too.

The list of requirements Finn's given him is brief. It all fit in a single text: two beds, a fridge, microwave, and a good TV. No design pointers other than _'something you think's cool'_. He still feels uncomfortable trying to guess (the anxious flutter in his belly when he thinks about it is starting to feel a lot like nausea), but Finn is stubbornly unhelpful when it comes to opinions of taste.

Once Kurt's got enough photos, he finds a clean drop cloth, settles himself with his sketchbook and pencil on the floor of the camper, and starts drafting ideas for the interior. "Something cool," he mutters to himself.

The garage opens around him. It's only his Dad and another guy working today. There's just one car in, so it promises to remain a quiet morning. Kurt gets lost in the drag of the soft pencil lead over the rough paper as he gives shape to thought.

#

Kurt gets the text from Blaine just before noon. "There's no one at your house. Where are you?"

He texts back, "Good morning to you too." Gets a ":P" face in response. "I'm at the garage," he sends. "Where do you want to meet?"

"I'll come to you," Blaine sends. "I have coffee."

"Fantastic," Kurt texts. "See you soon."

#

Blaine soon turns up at the open door of the camper with a cheerful smile, two coffees, and a paper bag. He passes Kurt the bag and a coffee. Kurt clambers out of the camper, and opens the bag with curiosity. Within is an apricot cream cheese danish.

"Blaine," Kurt says. The buttery yeast scent of the pastry wafts up. It's a wonderful respite from the smell of old carpet and glue. "How did you know these were my favorite?"

"The way you ogle them longingly right before you order a fat free muffin kind of gave you away. And since it's a gift, you have to eat it, right?"

Kurt laughs, says, "You're the best boyfriend, _and_ your logic is infallible. Come on, let's go sit outside."

They settle on a weathered park bench in a sunny sheltered corner behind the shop. There's a small bit of exposed earth between the asphalt and the rusty corrugated iron fence. Amid the scrubby grass and dandelions bob a few bright marigold flowers, self-sown from several summers back when Kurt tried to turn this spot into an outdoor break area. No one ever really used it, so he let it go.

They have enough privacy here, Kurt sets his coffee on the ground and reaches over to take Blaine's hand. He takes a bite of the danish. It's luxurious, aromatic, melts in his mouth: a perfectly balanced melange of sweet, savory, tart. He closes his eyes as he chews.

"Are you working today?" Blaine asks.

"No," Kurt says after he's swallowed. "Not for money, anyway. I wanted to take a closer look at the camper."

"Do you think you'll do it?"

Kurt shrugs. "I don't know. There's a lot of work, and I'm..." Kurt scuffs the sole of his shoe in an arc across the gritty asphalt. "Honestly? I'm really nervous doing the job for Finn."

Blaine is thoughtful for a moment, watches the movement of Kurt's foot. He looks up and asks, "Why's that?"

It's not a story Kurt wants to tell today, his past conflicts with Finn. Especially not when he has this amazing new relationship with him as his stepbrother. Kurt takes another mouthful of pastry, thinks as he chews. But it's a big factor in his decision making, the present ease of his new relationship with Finn. He tries an abbreviated version of their particular history. "Friendship with Finn hasn't always been easy, and we've rarely agreed on much. I'm not sure I can do a job he'll like, and if I screw it up, then..." Kurt shrugs again. "Whenever I ask him what sort of design he wants, he just says, 'something cool.' Whatever that means."

Blaine nods. "But you guys are pretty close now, right?"

"Yeah."

"And he's trusting you with this?"

"Trusting?" It hadn't occurred to Kurt that it was about trust. He thought it was just Finn being aesthetically apathetic. "You think so?"

This time Blaine's the one to shrug. "Well, I don't know him that well, but if he's asked you to do this, then, yeah, I'd say he trusts you."

"Or he just wants to get it done for free."

"Do you really think he's using you?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No, I doubt that. At least, not on purpose."

"Kurt, it's up to you. You don't have to say yes."

"Believe me, I know how to say 'no'." But it's true that he doesn't really want to tell Finn 'no' this early in their brotherhood. It _was_ nice to be asked. "What do you think?" Kurt asks Blaine. "You've seen the camper now."

"I think it could be potentially pretty neat—"

"Potentially..."

"—and I know you enjoy challenges. And makeovers." Blaine smiles.

Kurt laughs. "That's true."

"How are you leaning? Think you might?"

"Don't know yet. I'm just playing with ideas... seeing if anything excites me," Kurt says, and, with that, he feels like he's done processing this particular issue for now. He turns his attention fully to Blaine. Thinks about his empty house and how long it's been since they've enjoyed privacy: how amazing Blaine's thighs look in the jeans he's wearing and how good Blaine's leg had felt under his hand last night. Blaine's still got another ten days of school. His final exams are this week, which means Kurt may be seeing less of him in the afternoons. "Do you have a lot of studying to do for next week?"

"Yes," Blaine says. "I actually brought my books with me. I thought maybe we could grab some lunch and hang out while I study? If you're done here and that wouldn't be too boring?"

"Sure... Um. We can pick something up and head back to my house. I've got enough photos and notes and sketches to start brainstorming properly. But I need to get back to my computer to go online and do some research."

So they go back to Kurt's house.

#

After lunch, they sit together at the dining room table, having come to a mutual decision that any kissing needs to wait until Blaine's done at least an hour's worth of good Biology study. So Blaine studies while Kurt pokes about online and does some more detailed drawings with his colored pencils. Eventually, Kurt has the feeling he's being watched. He looks up.

"May I see?" Blaine asks.

"Oh," Kurt glances down at the sketch he's been working on. It's got a rock and roll tour bus sort of theme; he's not sure if he likes it or not. He's also not used to anyone actually wanting to see his work. "Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, so long as you don't mind my looking."

"It's just, I don't know if it's any good, or if I even like it. Sometimes I have to get all the bad ideas out first."

"Work in progress. I understand," Blaine says.

"But you can... look, if you want," Kurt bites his lip and hesitates a moment longer before sliding his sketchbook across the table. He tries not to feel nervous, but does anyway. Pushes his hands between his pressed together thighs to keep himself from fidgeting.

Blaine gives him an encouraging smile and turns the pad around. He looks at it for a long time, and Kurt realizes he's holding his breath. "It's too much black, isn't it?" Kurt says when he can no longer bear Blaine's silence. "Puck would probably like it, but Finn wouldn't."

Blaine nods. "Maybe? I like how you've got the magazine covers and old albums framed though. That's a cool idea."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And the mirrors, to reflect the light and make it feel bigger."

"It's not tacky?"

Blaine purses his lips. "Only if you outline them in neon."

"That wasn't my plan," Kurt says, grins his relief.

"May I look at the others?"

"Oh, those are just the messy ones from this morning—" Kurt stops himself, remembers to breathe again. There's nothing personal about the drawings, not really. "But, go ahead."

Blaine turns the page. And another. He takes his time with each, offers compliments on what he likes. Laughs affectionately at the obviously ridiculous ones. "Is this a cowboy theme?" he asks, amusement bright in his eyes.

"Yeah, I really had to get that one out of my system," Kurt says, grinning.

Then, before Kurt's realized Blaine's about to turn past his camper sketches, Blaine's already turned to a page where Kurt had sketched one of his ideas for Prom outfits. "Oh," Blaine says.

"Oh," Kurt echoes, and then he's leaning across the table, reaching for the pad. "Those aren't—"

"Kurt? Is this meant to be me?"

Kurt doesn't draw faces on his models, but it's clear from the general shape and hair styles that the one in the kilt is Kurt, and the one beside is Blaine.

"Sort of," Kurt says.

"In a Blackwatch Nehru collar dinner jacket?"

"Yeah, I, um, did these for Prom. It was to match my kilt. I know, it's really tacky—too matchy matchy, and... " Kurt trails off. "Creative black tie's not your taste really, is it?"

"This is pretty bold," Blaine says, wrinkles his nose in a weird blend of reluctance and embarrassment, maybe. Kurt can't tell. "But no, not really? I like more classic stuff."

"Like..." Kurt thinks back to the outfits he's seen Blaine it. "A little more retro?"

"Yeah, I could probably pull off something like velvet."

"Oh, like a royal blue or burgundy or even a print—"

Blaine laughs. "More like... black."

"So more classic, less modern?"

"Hmm. Generally, I'm more mod than modern."

"Mid-century, sure," Kurt says. "Yeah, that suits you. Vintage modern gentleman."

Blaine laughs. "I guess so?"

They fall into silence then, and as their gazes catch and hold, Kurt sees the warmth growing in Blaine's, feels a reciprocal heat rising beneath his own skin. "Study break?" he suggests. "We could maybe... go up to my room?"

"Yes," Blaine says.


	4. Chapter 4

Everyone is naked under their clothes.

This truth isn't one Kurt's enjoyed terribly much. In fact, in schooldays punctuated by time spent in the boys' restrooms and locker rooms, he puts effort into pretending it's not true. Not because he's tempted to ogle every half-dressed boy in his vicinity—because, most of those guys? The way they smell? The way they talk? What passes for their personal 'grooming'? He really isn't. But he also doesn't want them to ever think he is, because he knows what they'll assume, no matter how wrongly: that he thinks about them in the same crass ways they talk about girls. It doesn't help that some of those girls are among his closest friends.

Even more than that, Kurt doesn't want those boys looking at him either, to see him as this small, pale human body, that still clings stubbornly to its childhood softness. Vulnerable and bared as if he doesn't possess a skin of his own, he doesn't want those boys looking at him. He hates it when they do.

Much of the time, he's wished he wasn't actually naked under his clothes. If he could fuse his body every morning with the clothes he wears, if he could only choose his own invulnerable skin for each day, then that would be pretty neat.

Blaine is naked under his clothes. This Kurt knows well, from those precious late afternoons in the Dalton common rooms, when they would find themselves with the privacy and time for loosened ties, opened collars, and untucked shirts. Kurt still thrills at the memory of the first time he slipped his hand up the back of Blaine's shirt to touch bare skin. The heat of Blaine's skin beneath his fingertips had lingered all day, like his fingers had their own memory. The satin smoothness of Blaine's skin had clung, like there was no other texture his hand cared to know.

And now, Blaine sits upon Kurt's bed looking at Kurt in a manner that reminds Kurt: Blaine is very aware of Kurt being naked under his clothes. Blaine will have his own memories, too, of the first time he touched Kurt's bare skin (which Kurt remembers vividly enough the recollection alone is enough to make him flush). It was a fleeting sweep of his palm across Kurt's belly to rest at his waist. The memory of Blaine's fingertips pressing against his flesh had felt like a brand. All day, the remnants of Blaine's touch had prickled upon Kurt's surface, indelible bright marks. They told Kurt that he does have skin of his own, that he is naked beneath his clothes, and that someone—Blaine—wants to touch that skin and be touched in return. And for the first time, Kurt didn't mind.

Which doesn't make Kurt feel any less vulnerable as he settles beside Blaine on his bed. He doesn't need to be literally naked with Blaine to feel so exposed. The knowledge is enough for now. So he lets his eyelids slip closed when Blaine kisses him deep and slow and wonderful. And when Blaine's hands unknot his scarf and gently draw it from around his neck, Kurt shivers at the intimacy of the touch even more than he does the passage of the fabric across the back of his neck. Kurt answers with the curl of his fingers into the dense cotton of Blaine's polo to pull its hem free of Blaine's waistband.

As they lie down together, Blaine's lips find Kurt's pulse low on his throat ("You smell so good," he says), and Kurt's hands explore the sleek contour of Blaine's spine.

#

Blaine doesn't stay for dinner. Carole calls to say she'll be bringing home subs on her way back from the hospital, his Dad comes downstairs freshly showered and smelling of Dial soap, and Finn returns from wherever he's spent the day. Kurt throws together a sesame and ginger coleslaw.

The four of them eat outside on the patio with the chemical-orange scent of the citronella candles thick and cloying in the air. Conversation, the small talk of the day, interleaves comfortable silences, and Kurt lets his mind drift. The candlelight through his glass of iced tea makes the ice cubes look like polished copper; he turns and tips his glass to make them clink. Finn tears open a bag of Cheetos and dumps them in a bowl in the middle of the table. There's an idleness, and an increasing feeling of openness and ease.

Dusk passes into twilight, and the mockingbird keeps singing.

#

After dinner, Kurt finds Finn in his bedroom, playing some shooter game on his X-box. He knocks on the door and pushes it open with his elbow. He's got two bowls of fudge swirl ice cream. "_Bon soir_," he says to Finn, and tries not to wrinkle his nose against the old socks and cheap body spray smell that clings to Finn's bedroom.

"_Hola_, dude," Finn replies, but he doesn't look away from the TV screen. His tongue tip is pressed flat between his lips as he winces, squints, and tilts to his side, mashing the control buttons furiously.

"Does that help?" Kurt asks.

Finn's glance flicks at Kurt briefly, then it's back on the screen. "Just... gimme a sec."

Kurt perches on the edge of Finn's desk chair, to avoid sitting on the sleeves of the several shirts Finn's tossed over it; the ice cream bowls are cold and sweating in his hands. While he waits, he looks around Finn's room. He's been in here before, but he's never really looked at it for clues of Finn's taste. It's fairly generic boy themed: brown wood and shades of blue. The duvet cover is plaid, the curtains striped. Kurt doesn't think Finn chose them. The posters on the walls are unframed, just tacked up with pins: various bands (most of whom Kurt's never heard of), some sports stadium, a few ample breasted models in bikinis. It doesn't give Kurt any _insight_.

"Goddamnjackassmotherfucker," Finn mutters at the TV, and then he tosses the control off to the side and turns to Kurt.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. "That bad?"

Finn closes his eyes in exasperation. "I can _never_ get past that one room."

"_C'est la guerre_," Kurt says, gets a blank look from Finn, so Kurt just shakes his head and passes one of the ice cream bowls over to Finn.

"_Gracias_," Finn says. "So, what's up?"

"Well," Kurt says, pushing through the ice cream with his spoon to carve out a bite. "I came to tell you that, given a few small conditions, I would like to do the interior of your camper."

"Awesome!" Finn says with a sudden smile. "That's great news. I'll have to tell Puck..." Finn reaches across his bed for his phone.

"I said I have some conditions," Kurt says.

"Oh, right," Finn's fingers hesitate upon his phone.

"First, if you're going to trust me with this..." Kurt pauses and waits for Finn to nod. "Then, I need to trust you too, so I want you to be honest with me about what you do and don't like, okay?"

"Okay." Finn shrugs.

"Second," Kurt says and pauses for a breath. "If you or Puck _insult_ me or my work, then I'm done."

Finn manages to look mildly offended. "Dude, we're not going to—"

"You better not."

With a nod, Finn closes his mouth.

"And finally, since you revealed yourself to be a decent songwriter at Nationals, in recompense, you're going to be my sounding board for the libretto I'm writing this summer, _Pip Pip Hooray_."

"Um, yeah, cool," Finn keeps nodding, smiling with enthusiasm now. It appears sincere. "Is that all?"

"For now," Kurt says. "I'll let you know if there's anything else."

"Great, thanks, Kurt."

As he leaves Finn's room, Kurt can't help but wonder if Finn's being too agreeable.

#

Back in his own room, Kurt closes his curtains, docks his iPod, and scrolls to the first playlist that's got none of his studying songs on it. He ends up with a high energy shuffle of Lady Gaga, Madonna, and Beyonce. It's not ideal, but he lets the music be energetic in his stead as he falls back upon his bed. His duvet is still rumpled from Blaine's visit. Kurt smiles as he reaches out to follow the shapes of the contours. He relaxes and soaks up the music, lets his body remember Blaine's touch today: Blaine's hand upon his bare thigh, rubbing up and down, from above his knee to just under the bottom hem of his shorts, Blaine's hands unfastening the buttons of his shirt, and Blaine's lips kissing down from his throat to his breastbone and lingering over his heart until Kurt couldn't stand it and dragged him back up by his hair to kiss him on the mouth again.

Kurt finds one of his own hands has wandered absently to the inside of his thigh, is rubbing soft circles across the thin skin. With a sharp breath, he stills the motion. Embarrassment heats his face, though he hears an echo of Blaine telling him: _'It would be okay if you did.'_

"It's okay," Kurt whispers to himself. He closes his eyes and imagines if Blaine had kept touching him today, if he'd slid his hand higher, kissed lower. Kurt's heart speeds and he tries sliding his own caress farther up his leg, dragging the hem of his shorts up with the side of his thumb as he goes. Tries to pretend it's Blaine's hand. Except he doesn't think Blaine's hand would be so jerky or unsure. He wishes Blaine had stayed for dinner.

Kurt stops and sighs. He opens his eyes and reaches for his phone. It's nearly ten o'clock; Blaine might be done studying. He sends Blaine a text, "How's the Biology going?"

There's no prompt reply, so, to clear his head, Kurt sits up. He stares at the prom photo of he and Blaine on his bookcase. It's not the official one, but one Rachel snapped of them dancing together. They'd both been so terrified, until—as no new terrible thing transpired—that fear had given way to a bizarre relieved elation.

Next to the photo, his crown rests upon the bedazzled skull and his scepter lies flat before it. The carnation from his boutonniere has dried, it's pink yellowed to peach. "The queen is dead. Long live the queen," Kurt says to the skull. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and wonders if he'll ever be able to endure this restlessness of missing Blaine.

His phone chimes with a reply from Blaine. "I'm successfully digesting dinner, so I'd say about as well as always."

Kurt laughs. "I meant the studying."

"Protein synthesis is really cool," Blaine sends back, followed shortly by, "I'm not being sarcastic."

"I believe you," Kurt types, grins. "Call me when you take your next study break?"

His phone rings almost immediately.

"That wasn't me being passive aggressive," Kurt says as he answers.

"I know. But I'm so done for the night. If I don't dream about anti-codons and polypeptides and template strands tonight, I've done something wrong."

"Ooh, science talk," Kurt says. "Tell me more."

Blaine laughs. "No, I'm really done. Talk to me about anything else, please?"

"Okay," Kurt says. He chews his lip, hesitating. He could say, _'I was just lying here, thinking about you, about kissing you earlier today, and your hands, and what you said in the restaurant last night...'_ But he doesn't. For all the things it may imply, Kurt's not ready for most of them. So instead he says, "I told Finn I'd do the interior of the camper for him."

"Oh, that's good, right?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm still nervous, but I think it's mostly the scale of it that's daunting."

"Well, hey," Blaine says. "Um. I have no idea what my schedule's going to look like this summer, but I'll help if I can, Kurt. A couple summers back, my Dad and I restored a car. I'm no expert, but I might have some relevant knowledge or skills."

"Really?" Kurt says, because he's sure he would have remembered Blaine telling him something like that. "You're full of surprises, Blaine Warbler."

There's a silence that Kurt thinks might be Blaine smiling.

"Okay, so, Mr. I'm No Expert. Where shall I start?"

"Hmm," Blaine says. "I'd say you need to name her first."

"She?"

"The camper. She needs a name. So you can imbue her with some spirit to help direct your process."

"_Esprit de_... camper?"

"Exactly," Blaine says.

"Of course," Kurt says, though he's not sure he does understand. But they spend the next half hour coming up with names. Kurt settles on 'Eliza', and it does feel, once he's decided, remarkably _right_.


	5. Chapter 5

Finn wants to start tearing down the camper straight away. Late Sunday morning, Kurt returns to the garage. His satchel is packed, not only with his laptop, but also with various sized zip-lock bags, stick on labels both large and small, and every color Sharpie he could find. His phone is charged with a freshly emptied memory. The day grows hot already; the smell of warming asphalt and dirty metal that blankets the garage during the summer months is another harbinger of long days.

Puck's here today too, and he and Finn have been at work for a while. They've pulled Eliza outside and got her up on blocks. Her wheels are gone. Around her, they've marked a working perimeter in electric orange traffic cones. Her front bumper lies upon the ground in front of her. Puck works at removing a headlight while Finn pries the old weatherstripping from around her windshield. It's all a bit brutal, watching the old thing be dismembered. Her faded floral paint job is extra shabby and dull in the daylight.

Kurt goes inside to set up his laptop up in the office, and then he gets changed into coveralls and collects the other tools and supplies he'll need.

When Kurt goes back outside, Finn's gone. ("To get food and things," Puck says.) Kurt decides to start in the cab, only it looks like Finn and Puck already have. Various fixtures lie in a disorganized pile in the passenger side footwell. Kurt recognizes the dome light casing and mount, some knobs from the dashboard and the rear-view mirror, loose screws and other bits and pieces he's less sure of. He sighs and leans out the open door. "I thought I was doing the interior," he says to Puck.

"Yeah, sorry, dude. Finn didn't tell me until I'd already started."

"I don't suppose you've noted down where all these parts came from?"

Puck straightens up and peers into the cab. "I figured it's all obvious enough."

"Right now, maybe," Kurt says. "But in several weeks when we're trying to put it all back together, it might not be."

So Kurt lays out a drop cloth on the ground, and then the parts upon it. He photographs each item and asks Puck where it came from if he can't work it out for himself. Then Kurt labels and bags it, tags the photo, and makes a color-coded entry in his notebook. He's planning to build a database on the computer for easy reference.

As the bags pile up and his notebook pages fill, Kurt's feeling pretty good about his organizational methods. He sets to work with screw drivers and pliers to remove more. Each piece gets the same methodical treatment. He's sure to make note of what's broken or too worn and will need replacement.

Eventually he becomes aware that Puck is watching him work. "What?" he asks from where he's wedged himself half under the dash to get at some awkwardly placed bolts securing the steering column.

"I really thought getting laid would make you relax more," Puck says. "Guess I was wrong."

Kurt sits up too fast and clips his head on the steering wheel. He bites back the reflexive profanity and says instead, "Excuse me?" He rubs at the sore spot on his skull, but it's not bad. His whole head feels too hot, but it's not because of the bump.

"Warbler boy hasn't managed to dislodge the stick up your ass?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, adjusts his grip on his vise-grips, and leans back over. "You've got to be kidding me," he mutters. Apparently there're other things Finn hasn't told Puck, but Kurt knows Puck well enough to understand this isn't actually an insult. It's just Puck being Puck: inappropriate and rude. "His name is _Blaine_, and that's... really none of your business." Kurt shimmies his shoulders against the seat to angle himself better, tries to get a good grip without having to actually get down on the floor. It smells like stale beer, old shoes, and wet dog down there, and the mats are seriously dirty.

"Dude, chill. I'm just making conversation."

"Then let me invite you to make a different one." Kurt holds his breath as he tightens the vise-grips around the first bolt holding the steering column to the dash. He tests the grip before applying force.

"Wait," Puck says as if something momentous has just occurred to him. "You two haven't actually done the rumpy-pumpy yet, have you?"

Kurt feels his eyes widen as he glances to the open passenger side door, and immediately wishes he hadn't. He sees Puck making an illustrative and lewd pelvic gesture. "_Rumpy_...?" Kurt asks. The vise-grips slip off the bolt, and Kurt swears under his breath. He should have grabbed the bolt extractor. "Oh my god, Puck, this is not a different conversation!"

"I just figured, since you're both dudes and all," Puck says as if Kurt's both a willing and comfortable conversation partner. "Hell, if I had a girl with an ass like your boy's, I'd be hitting that." Also accompanied by a gesture: this time, mimed spanking accompanies the hip thrusts.

"You're being gross," Kurt says. "Please don't talk about Blaine that way."

"I'm just saying," Puck says, and it's bizarre and disturbing how glibly Puck can discuss such prurient—and personal—matters.

"Well, you can stop," Kurt says, and he's relieved when Puck goes back to the front of the camper. Kurt leans back down, relaxes and decides to try one more time with the vise-grips.

They work in silence for a while. Kurt is entirely comfortable with the silence, even manages to get one bolt out.

And then. "How long have you two been dating anyway?"

That seems safe enough to answer. "Two and a half months."

"That long?"

"Mmhm," Kurt says, though it hasn't felt very long to him. They're planning to do something special for their three month anniversary: maybe a picnic by the river, if the weather is good.

"And you're still not—?"

"Ugh!" Kurt says. "Will you leave it alone?" The last thing he needs—aside from discussing the intimate aspects of his relationship with Blaine with Puck—is to hear another horrible sex euphemism. "And, no—not that it's any of your business—we're not."

"Kurt," Puck says, and his voice is closer again, this time coming through the driver side window. Kurt looks up at him as his shadow falls upon Kurt's face. Upside down, Puck actually looks concerned. "I know you spend a lot of time hanging out with chicks and all, so maybe you don't fully appreciate this, but us guys? We have _needs_. Like sexual needs. And that includes your pretty prep school boy."

"Maybe some of us are slightly more evolved than that, Puck," Kurt says.

"Not a chance," Puck says. "Your boy might act all gentlemanly and sophisticated, but underneath that fancy uniform and hair gel, he's an animal just like the rest of us. And so are you, no matter how hard you try to pretend you're not."

Kurt sits up with a sigh. "If there's a point to this conversation, would you please make it so we can move on to something else?"

"Seriously, dude. I'm just looking out for you. I mean, you really like him, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"You're happier now than you ever were before you met him," Puck says. "And that makes me happy."

"Okay," Kurt says. That seems a little weird, but it's fine.

"Then, I'm telling you, Kurt. If you want it to last with Blaine, you got to take care of him, right? You don't want him going off to find some other dude just because you're too prissy—"

Kurt closes his eyes. "Really?" he says softly. Puck doesn't hear him.

"—to put out."

Kurt won't get angry. He won't. He opens his eyes and speaks calmly, "You have no idea what you're talking about." Kurt starts to gather up his things from the seat. "I'm going to head home. Tell Finn I'll finish stripping the cab tomorrow." Kurt scoots across to the open passenger side, gets out, and starts packing the bags into boxes so he can carry them inside.

Puck comes around the front of the camper, follows Kurt into the garage. "Hey, hold up."

Kurt stops. It's cooler in the shade. He takes a breath to clear his head. The familiar tang of motor oil and other automotive chemicals unwinds some of the tension that's building behind his eyes. "What?" he asks wearily.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Puck says; he sounds genuinely apologetic.

But Kurt can't leave off the sarcasm. "Good job, then."

Puck is silent for a moment. "I just figured maybe you didn't have anyone to talk to about this stuff," he says more gently.

"I talk about this stuff with Blaine." Kurt says and turns to face Puck, and then he makes himself say the next thing. "But as horrifying as it is to talk about sex with you, I can, at least, appreciate your concern."

Puck smiles, and Kurt smiles back, but Kurt goes home anyway.

#

As much as Kurt doesn't wish it to be so—and he denies to himself that it is for several days before he gives up and admits it to himself—Puck's advice (or whatever the hell that was) _bothers_ Kurt. Until now, his romance with Blaine has been perfectly comfortable and wonderful, in terms of what they're doing and how much they each seem to be content with it. Admittedly, he wouldn't mind more opportunities to be alone with Blaine, and he's growing curious about doing more. His fantasies are becoming more daring, anyway. But as for reality, he's not interested in anything becoming pornographic anytime soon. He likes the grace of their mutual courtship. He loves it: the longing, the romance, the shy glances, the anticipation.

But now he's wondering, no thanks to Puck, if Blaine truly is as satisfied as he seems. Above many other things, Blaine is a gentleman, and while Kurt's no lady, perhaps Blaine does want more, he just doesn't want to pressure Kurt. (Kurt suspects he will never not feel humiliated over the aborted sex talk Blaine tried to give him back before they were boyfriends.)

So maybe Kurt needs to be bold, take initiative, give Blaine something more than he's asking for. More, as in an activity that will lead to an orgasm. More as in sex of some sort.

It's at that point Kurt feels his own mind clamming up on him. He wasn't lying when he said he didn't like porn. He's always felt alienated by the reduction of people into grunting assemblages of straining body parts. It feels like the opposite of intimacy and care. The men in those videos aren't tender with each other; they don't talk. It's all so... mechanical and rough. Whatever else he wants with Blaine, he doesn't want that. But maybe Blaine does—at least a little bit—and he's too aware of Kurt's hang ups to say so.

It's common enough advice, that relationships require compromise, so Kurt needs a compromise. He's not ready for anything that Puck could possibly refer to as 'rumpy-pumpy', so that's off his list of things to consider. Fellatio is similarly intimidating. His pamphlets had extolled the virtues of frotting (safe, mutually gratifying, with an ancient tradition to recommend it), but that would require much more nudity than Kurt is comfortable with—unless they did it clothed, which, if brought to the intended conclusion would render their pants unacceptably soiled. He may be a teenage boy, but he's not dry humping his boyfriend until he ejaculates in his pants.

A hand-job it is, then, Kurt decides. And of course, he needs a plan, but this isn't something he can sketch out in his notebook. He thinks a quiet evening in might provide an opportunity. He'll need to be ready to seize it. Literally.

#

It happens Friday. Blaine's parents are going out for the evening and Blaine invites Kurt over for delivery pizza and movies. He's exhausted from a week of exams with more to look forward to. When Kurt arrives, Blaine's dressed down in faded jeans and a Dalton t-shirt. His hair is still damp from the shower, and a day's worth of stubble darkens his chin. It's the first time Kurt's seen Blaine so casual, and even if Kurt feels relatively overdressed in his fresco blazer and tie, Blaine is still the most beautiful boy Kurt's ever seen.

They go to Blaine's room with snacks and drinks in hand. The pizza will be their intermission. Kurt takes off his jacket and loosens his collar and tie before he settles upon Blaine's bed. Meanwhile Blaine thumbs through the DVD cases on his bookshelf.

Kurt sits cross-legged near the high padded headboard, watching Blaine (admiring him, really, because the cut of Blaine's jeans is infinitely more flattering than the Dalton uniform pants) but only half-listening to Blaine's monologue recommending various films, because he's wondering how best to go about getting his hands in his boyfriend's pants. This isn't shaping up to be a put on a movie and _don't_ watch it sort of evening, and Kurt doesn't want to be clumsy about it.

Blaine turns with the case for Bryan Singer's first X-men film in his hand. "Since you liked _First Class_, I thought you might enjoy this one too, to see how things develop. The story isn't focused on Erik and Charles quite as much, but Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan have amazing chemistry, and—of course—there's Hugh Jackman who's, you know, _hot_..."

Kurt smiles and nods. Possibly too vacantly.

"Um. Was that too weird to say?" Blaine asks.

"Hmm? What's that?"

"About Hugh Jackman?"

"Oh, no you're right. He's definitely nice to look at." Kurt smiles and adds, "Not as nice as you, though." He reaches a hand out to Blaine, to coax him over to join Kurt on the bed, but Blaine just laughs softly and turns back to his shelf of DVD's.

Kurt looks at his hands and hopes he moisturized enough. Working with the camper this week has spawned a few calluses. He doesn't want his hands to be rough on Blaine. He runs his thumb along his fingers. He thinks they're soft enough, and there are no snags on his nails. He drags one hand across Blaine's plaid duvet cover. Nothing catches on the fine cotton.

"Or," Blaine says. "If you don't feel like mutants and politics, we could watch _Spiderman_? It's brighter, more nostalgic and sweet. Definitely more romantic. You'd like Peter and Mary-Jane—"

"You choose, honey. I'll be fine with anything." Kurt folds his hands in his lap.

Blaine glances back at him. "I don't want you to just humor me, Kurt. It's important to me that you enjoy yourself too."

Kurt sits up a little straighter. "Well, you know the films, and you know me. Pick what you think I'll like best."

"How do you feel about _Superman_? I liked the reboot. Some thought there was too much drama and romance, not enough action, but Kevin Spacey was fantastic as Lex Luthor, and I—" Blaine stops talking and turns to face Kurt. He makes a thoughtful grimace as he looks at Kurt. "We don't have to watch a comic book movie."

"It's fine," Kurt says. Then, "Are you nervous about this?"

"Well, yeah," Blaine says. "I love these movies, and I don't want to introduce you to them badly."

"Let's go with your first choice then. One franchise at a time?"

Blaine smiles, relieved. "All right." He puts the DVD in and comes back to the bed.

Blaine sits at the foot of the bed and navigates the menus while explaining how the politics and bigotry around the mutants can be read as an allegory for societal prejudice around homosexuality. Kurt nods, and wonders at the oblivious homophobic fanboys. "Well," Blaine says. "It's a way of discreetly changing minds, don't you think? Like Star Trek did in the sixties."

"I haven't seen Star Trek either," Kurt confesses.

Blaine shakes his head, amused. "Not on your radar, huh?"

"Not so much," Kurt says. "I was obsessed with the Power Rangers though."

"Really?" Blaine asks, smiles. "That's cool."

"Yeah, I still have my action figures. Somewhere. They all lived together in my dollhouse."

"Adorable." Blaine keeps smiling and crawls up the bed toward Kurt. He gives Kurt a soft kiss on the cheek as he reaches across him to flick off the lamp.

Kurt's heart beats faster as he props the pillows up against the headboard and leans back. He opens his legs and invites Blaine to sit between them and recline against him. Even though the popcorn has cooled off while they chose the movie and the ice has melted into his drink, it's close enough to perfect that Kurt doesn't mind.

The movie plays, and Kurt finds it easier to follow than he'd expected. It's not enough to engage him fully though, not with his mind still half-occupied with how to best go about seducing Blaine. It's hard not to think about touching Blaine more anyway, with him so warm and relaxed in Kurt's arms, and the occasional scents of him wafting up to overpower the popcorn smell. Kurt nuzzles into Blaine's hair; his soft curls are still slightly damp, saturated with the bright aroma of grapefruit shampoo and the richer, sweeter notes of whatever styling product Blaine's used.

It's not long before nuzzling has become kissing. Kurt's lips find the tender skin of Blaine's temple, caress high on his cheekbone. When Blaine exhales heavily and his head lists against Kurt's shoulder, Kurt nudges Blaine's head farther to the side and bends closer; he kisses below Blaine's ear, behind his jaw, along the side of his neck, until Blaine shivers and squirms and breathlessly asks, "Are you even still watching?"

Kurt flicks his gaze to the screen. They're fighting in a train station; Magneto's guys are trying to capture Rogue. Kurt doesn't like the Toad. "Mmm. Sort of?" he says, and then admits, "But not really."

"_Kurt_," Blaine says with a sigh, affection warming his exasperation. "Are you bored?"

"No..." Kurt says, and he reaches to start to tugging Blaine's t-shirt up. "I'm definitely not bored."

"I mean... uh... with the movie?"

"No," Kurt says. "It's just hard to care very much about Rogue or Wolverine when I've got you right here, like this." Kurt looks down over Blaine's shoulder to where his hands are pale upon Blaine's dark t-shirt, dragging it up to bare his belly, and then, skimming down to touch his skin and feel the warm tremor of the muscles beneath his fingertips. He can do this for Blaine; he can take care of him.

Blaine's breath comes out in a rush. "I'll pause it."

The screen freezes, casting a pale, still glow upon them on the bed. Kurt is gratified to see the evidence of Blaine's arousal swelling behind his fly. Can feel his own, a hot pulse, pinned behind Blaine's weight, pressed against the small of his back. It's not new, being in this state together, but it is the first time Kurt's intended to do something about it. He tells himself he's not scared, but he's not terribly convincing. At least he's used to being scared.

As fast as his heart beats, it feels like the rest of him is moving in slow motion. He flattens his palm low upon Blaine's belly, spreading his hand over the yielding warmth, presses and drags his touch until his pinky edges below Blaine's waistband. "You feel really good," Kurt whispers against Blaine's temple, and Blaine arches back against him, turning his head to find Kurt's mouth with his own, reaching with one hand to take a messy handful of Kurt's hair. His other hand goes to cover the one Kurt has low upon his belly; Blaine fits his fingers between Kurt's knuckles and rubs encouragingly.

Kurt does his best to be encouraged: he moves his hand to the buckle of Blaine's belt. Pulls back from Blaine's mouth to ask, "May I... ?"

"_Yeah_," Blaine says, and then he's twisting around in Kurt's arms, his mouth seeking a deeper, hotter kiss. Kurt's wrist bends awkwardly, so he lets go to reorient his hand, tugs at the loop of leather through the buckle. Blaine turns all the way, and suddenly his hands are on Kurt's belt, jerking the tongue free, popping the top button of Kurt's jeans, and he's murmuring so hotly against Kurt's parted lips. "God, I want to touch you too. Want to _see_ you."

Kurt freezes even as Blaine's fingers work the buttons of his fly open, and Blaine is so—too—close to touching him already, and it's all happening so fast. The tugging of the denim over his crotch is enough to have Kurt trying to pull away, except there's nowhere to go, so he's just moving uselessly beneath Blaine's hands in a manner that may appear eager. He grabs Blaine's hands with his own to still them. "Wait, Blaine... please. Wait," he says, breathless and increasingly, uncomfortably off balance.

Blaine sits back slowly, gives Kurt some space, and looks at him. Kurt can't quite meet Blaine's eyes, so he looks at his chin, his ear, his forehead, his nose. "I'm sorry," Kurt says.

"That's..." Blaine's lips press together, and then he releases a breath in a nervous laugh. "Kurt, that's not your sexy face."

So of course Kurt manages to look like he's in some sort of gastric distress. _Of course_ he does. Kurt lets go of Blaine and covers his face with his hands. "I can't. I'm sorry," he says. "I thought I could, but I can't."

"Hey," Blaine says, and his hands rest tentatively upon Kurt's knees. "_Hey_, sweetheart, please. Please don't hide from me. Did I do something wrong?"

The sincerity and concern of the endearment makes it through. Kurt peels his hands away from his too hot face. Looks at Blaine helplessly as his stomach wrings itself into restless knots; he wishes he could grab the remote and rewind the last several minutes to before he made a fool of himself. But he can't, and he doesn't want to make it worse. Can't think of anything to say other than, "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then?" Blaine asks. "What just happened?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Kurt?" Blaine prompts again. And Kurt makes himself keep looking into Blaine's eyes; he sees concerned confusion.

"I, um." Kurt tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, and reaches for Blaine's hands again.

Blaine loosely curls his fingers around Kurt's. "What's going on?"

A breath, deep and ragged, and Kurt drags his lip free. "I was trying to—" And a nervous huff out. "I mean, I thought you might be..."

"I might be what?"

The words Kurt knows Blaine's asking for refuse to settle upon Kurt's tongue long enough for him to articulate any of them. Instead, Kurt says, "I really like kissing you."

The corner of Blaine's mouth twitches, but he's not smiling. "Me too, but, this isn't about that." Blaine tilts his head and looks at Kurt expectantly. "Is it?" When Kurt still doesn't reply, he sighs and lets go of Kurt's hands, and then he pulls away, slides off the bed and moves toward his bedroom door.

"Wait. Where are you going?" Kurt sits up, leans forward.

"Let's go out for the pizza," Blaine says. He flicks on the ceiling light and then goes to his dresser. He pulls out a folded undershirt, tosses it toward the bed, and before Kurt can look away, Blaine's hauling his Dalton t-shirt off by the neck. He stands, facing Kurt, shirtless and unselfconscious, and reaches for the undershirt.

Presented with Blaine's bare torso, it's like Kurt's never seen a shirtless man before. Kurt tries to look away, but his gaze is stuck, trying to memorize the exact shade and texture of Blaine's bare skin, the way his muscles shift as he shakes the folds from the undershirt, the small ovals of his nipples. He's quickly covered back up, smoothing the thin white cotton down his waist, and Kurt's suddenly, horribly aware of his own open fly and the way he's still staring at the flex of Blaine's arms. "Sure," he says and turns away to get off the opposite side of the bed. He tucks his shirt back in and does up his pants.

A glance over his shoulder shows Blaine at his closet door now, selecting a shirt: a rust colored polo with a dark stripe on the collar. There's something about the way Blaine's moving, so crisply and quickly.

Kurt straightens his tie, turns, and asks Blaine, "Are you angry?"

Blaine looks up from buttoning his collar. "What?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"I'm not... mad." Blaine pauses and closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them again. "I'm just frustrated."

Kurt goes cold. "You're frustrated." Puck was right.

"Yes, I know this isn't easy for you, but I'd really like it if you'd just—"

"You mean sexually," Kurt interrupts. "You're frustrated with me sexually."

"What?" Blaine blinks at him. "_No_."

"You're not?"

"No," Blaine repeats firmly. "Why would you think that?"

"You just said you were frustrated—"

"Because I wish you'd _talk_ to me about this stuff." Blaine runs a hand over his hair, it comes to rest at the back of his neck. "This is all new for me too, Kurt. I, honestly... I don't know what I'm doing sometimes, and I don't like having to guess. Not with you." Blaine leans over for the remote and turns the television off.

Kurt nods. He told Puck he talked to Blaine about this stuff, but, there aren't actually that many conversations they've had, not direct ones, not really. Not about this. Maybe they do need to talk. "We can talk," Kurt says.

"Okay, good," Blaine says. He picks up Kurt's blazer from where Kurt draped it over the chair. He passes it to Kurt. "Just, not here, all right? It's too..." He motions toward the bed.

"Fraught with implication?" Kurt offers with a hesitant smile.

Which Blaine returns. "Yes," Blaine agrees.

#

It's a ten minute drive to Michelangelo's Pizzeria. Neither of them puts on music: Blaine's iPod is back in his bedroom, and Kurt's not sure he's got an appropriate playlist for preparing to talk about sex with his boyfriend over pizza. Kurt strokes the smooth strap of his seatbelt and steals glances at Blaine, trying to get a better read on his strange, shifting mood. The interior of the car pulses between warm light and cool shadow as they pass beneath the ranks of streetlights.

Kurt's rarely felt so responsible for another person's being or emotional state. Sometimes he forgets that Blaine is no more experienced than he is. It's easy to forget Blaine is younger and carries his own wounds; he puts on such a convincing air of wisdom and confidence. But Blaine _was_ nervous tonight, and Kurt was too absorbed in his own worries to really process it. There's one thing he thinks he can do. He clears his throat and lets go of the seatbelt.

"Hey," he says.

"Hmm?"

"When we get back, after dinner, can we finish watching the movie?"

Blaine's attention flicks to Kurt. He takes a long breath before replying, "We don't have to. It's okay if it's not your thing."

"But, it is your thing, right?"

Blaine's smile is tight. He doesn't look at Kurt, but flips on his indicator and checks his mirrors to change lanes. "Yes," he says.

"Then it's something I'd like to share with you. I _was_ actually enjoying it."

"Were you really?"

"Yeah, I mean, it'd have been better with more musical numbers, but..."

Blaine laughs. "X-men: the musical?" he asks skeptically.

"Oh, come on, they're doing one with _Spiderman_. Imagine it, Blaine. It'd be fantastic."

Blaine flashes a grin at Kurt as he turns into the parking lot of the pizzeria. "Oh my god, you're right. It really would be."

#

On a Friday night, Michelangelo's is busy. The bustle of patrons and the surge of conversation hits them as soon as Blaine opens the door. "Did you used to come here with your brother too?" Kurt asks, stepping into the restaurant's foyer as Blaine holds the door. A bank of vintage arcade games blinks friendlily along one wall, a fully occupied vinyl bench lines the opposite. Dark wood wainscoting clads the bottom half of richly textured plaster walls. Above the paneling, they're with various hand painted pizza toppings, all captioned with their Italian names. There's a line to be seated, so they stand near the wall under the boldly depicted _cipolla_ and _aglio_.

"Oh, maybe?" Blaine says. "I don't remember. Mostly I remember it being the popular venue for middle school birthday parties."

"Hmm," Kurt says and looks through the window into the kitchen where there's a woman nimbly spinning a round of pizza dough up into the air. The air is heavy with the scents of fresh baked bread, sultry tomatoes with garlic, and a nose tickling hint of pepper.

Beside him, Blaine stands with his hands in his pockets. "Is this okay?" Blaine asks. "I probably should have asked—"

"It's fine. It's always nice to try somewhere new. And as you know, Lima doesn't have much to offer that's not a chain."

Eventually, they're seated in a cozy booth along the wall. A candle in a glass mosaic holder flickers between them: amber, bronze, and vermillion. Kurt opens the laminated menu, careful of the frayed plastic edges. There are a good dozen different pizzas, both classic and more modern, a few pasta dishes, and a decent selection of salads. "So what's good?" Kurt asks.

"I keep it simple and usually get the pepperoni or the margherita," Blaine says, so they decide to share a margherita and a Caesar salad. Blaine also recommends the locally brewed root beer.

After the waiter has taken their orders and their menus, Blaine bumps the toe of his shoe against Kurt's ankle to get his attention. "So," he says. "You said we could talk."

"Right," Kurt says. "Yes, I did." They definitely have privacy: the booth seats are tall, and the place is loud enough. Between Andrea Bocelli singing in the background and the blanketing conversation, Kurt is confident they won't be overheard. They could plan a jewelry heist and no one would know.

"Okay," Blaine says.

"Yeah, okay," Kurt says and realizes he's meant to start. "What, um, exactly did you want to discuss?"

"Generally, where we are with the physical aspects of our relationships, or where we want to be. More specifically, what happened tonight. Things seemed like they were going really... well. And then they really weren't. So what happened?"

Kurt reaches for his glass of ice water. The thick tea-colored plastic of the glass is dull against his lips. Blaine sounds so grown-up and rational about it. He's been writing essays all week on his exams, maybe that's why his conversation starter sounds like an essay question itself. "Tonight," Kurt says. It seems a place to start.

"Yes?"

"Well, this week, it'd been on my mind, that you might not be completely satisfied. With me. Physically." Kurt looks up at Blaine hesitantly. "So I thought I'd try to..." Kurt makes a vague gesture with his hand that conveys very little of the specifics of his intentions. "... seduce you. A little bit."

"A little bit?" Blaine's smile is amused. "You were succeeding."

"Yeah," Kurt says. "Except maybe more than a little bit."

"Is that why you freaked out?"

"I didn't freak out," Kurt says, sees the look Blaine's giving him and sighs. "Fine, maybe I did, a little bit. But I thought we were on the same page. More or less." Kurt carefully unwraps the paper ring from his napkin. "But we weren't. Or, maybe you were, but I wasn't on the page I thought I was on."

"What page were you on?"

"I don't know. Maybe I thought I was reading French, but it turned out to be..." He waves up at the wall above them where a large cross section of a tomato is painted and labeled in irregular, hand painted script: _pomodoro_. "Italian."

Blaine frowns. "You may be losing me, Kurt."

"Never mind," Kurt says. "It's a terrible analogy." Kurt falls silent as their waiter arrives with two large frosted glass mugs. The sarsaparilla scent is strong and caramel sweet. When the waiter leaves, Kurt asks, "What page did you think we were on?"

Blaine smiles, speaks easily. "The one where we undo each other's pants and touch each other."

It's enough to make Kurt flush hot and look down into his fizzing root beer.

Blaine continues, "But if you were on the page where you just wanted to fondle my belt buckle, then I can understand the confusion."

Though his face remains hot, Kurt laughs. "And is that...? I mean, you wanted that?"

"For you to fondle my belt buckle?" Blaine teases.

"No, the _other_ thing."

"To touch you? Yes."

"No, I meant... the other way."

"The other way?"

"Me touching you." Kurt fidgets, scraping the short nail of his index finger through the thin frost on his mug. "That was my... plan, anyway. But then you wanted to touch me too, and I just. Couldn't. That was too much."

"So," Blaine's brow creases. "You wanted to touch me, but you didn't want me to reciprocate?"

"In a nutshell," Kurt says and tries to relax his shoulders. "It seemed like the most... efficient way."

Blaine's eyebrows go up. "Efficient?"

"To, um, satisfy you?"

"Kurt." Blaine's tone falls; he sounds disappointed.

"You... uh. You wouldn't want that?"

"Well, it's not like..." Blaine frowns and presses his lips together. Starts again. "Okay, don't get me wrong, because the thought of you..." Blaine lowers his voice and leans forward. "... doing that for me? It's a nice thought. More than nice, really, but—" Blaine pauses with a wince.

"But?" Kurt ask.

"When I think about doing things like that with you? I think about us doing them together, comfortably and because we're both into it and really want it. Not because you're worried I'm unsatisfied so you're trying to, like, tick something off a 'to-do' list as efficiently as possible. I don't need you to..." Blaine's lip curls, "..._service_ me to keep me happy. That's not what we're doing, is it?"

Then Kurt shakes his head. "No, you're right, that's not what we're doing." This is about their friendship and how they love each other, not just trying to get off. They get to do it their own way. Screw the critics (namely Puck).

"So we can wait, Kurt. As long as you want to, until we're both on the same page, and it's written in a language we both know how to read." Blaine reaches across the table, and Kurt gives him his hand.

It's still a poor analogy, but Kurt nods. Though it's not quite what he wants: this idea of waiting. He tries to explain. "Blaine, it's not that I want to _wait_. I don't want to think of it as waiting. I'd rather think of it as us _being_. Like being content with what we're doing together in the present. Honestly? I don't really want much more than what we're doing now."

He takes a moment to look at Blaine, to see if he appears distraught by any of this. He doesn't; he's listening, patient and steady and amazing. So Kurt continues. "I expect I will want more, with you, sometime in the future. But I'd like to get to that place naturally, not because I feel like I have to, or because I'm holding something back and waiting. Or, worse, making you wait. I just want to be able to keep doing the kinds of things we're already doing without worrying that it's not enough."

"Kurt," Blaine says softly. "It's enough."

A long breath exits his lungs in a head clearing rush. "I'm glad," he says. "And it's not like I'm averse to a bit more with you, but I'm not ready for..." Kurt waves his fingers toward his lap. "...below the belt stuff, I guess."

"Okay," Blaine says with a nod. "So... how about we have a rule, or a guideline? Maybe? Like, no hands below the belt, but everything else is all right?"

A firm delineation is simple and easy, "Yes," Kurt says. "I like that."

They share a smile that's also simple and easy, and drift into a comfortable silence for a time. The pizza arrives, and Kurt finds, as he passes the pepper grinder across the table to Blaine, that he has a pleasant fullness in his heart along with the relief. He remembers that Blaine is his best friend, the one he can always talk to. And they did talk, and no one died of embarrassment, and it's okay. Everything is _okay_. Better than okay—wonderful. Kurt reaches for a slice of pizza, and says, "So tell me more about Jean Grey. She seems interesting."

#

They pull into the garage back at Blaine's house. The space is bright and austere around them, white walls and polished metal shelving. But it's dark and quiet in the car. Intimate. Blaine keys off the ignition and the garage door grumbles down behind them. Before Kurt can move to get out of the car, Blaine takes Kurt's hand. There's something urgent in Blaine's grip. Kurt turns and looks at Blaine, wondering. He stares into Blaine's eyes and Blaine stares back, and they've done this before, but there's something new here between them. Kurt doesn't know what it is.

Blaine is the one to unsettle the silence with a whisper: "Would you kiss me, Kurt?"

"Yes," Kurt replies. He lets go of Blaine's hand and reaches across the console. His hand is steady as he cups Blaine's jaw, but his breath is not as he leans in. It's the first time he's done this, been the one to move in first. He leans in until they're breathing each other's air. Then he presses closer, his mouth to Blaine's. Blaine's lips are soft, sweet, and his kisses are so generous. Blaine yields, and Kurt follows.

Kurt kisses Blaine, kisses and kisses, and strokes over his hair and down his arm. As he thinks about it—as he feels it—Kurt's pulse hammers hard in his throat: Blaine's body, beneath his clothes, what Kurt got to glimpse today, smooth and warm and entirely lovely. He touches to find the shapes he mapped with his gaze—upper arm, shoulder, chest—and the knowledge that nothing more than this is expected or imminent, emboldens Kurt's touch. It's just this between them, and it is magnificent.

When he finally breaks the kiss, and they pull apart, they're both breathing heavily. Blaine's lips are puffy, kiss bruised and damp; his eyes are dark and unfocused. "Good?" Kurt asks softly, petting Blaine's hair into an arc around his ear..

"_So_ good," Blaine says like a sigh.

"Yeah?" Kurt asks, pleased as he gives Blaine's cheek a last lingering caress before he withdraws entirely. "Shall we go in and watch the rest of _X-men_?"


	7. Chapter 7

A headache has nagged Kurt since mid-morning, and it's grown too hot in his bedroom this afternoon. He's closed the air conditioning vents and opened his window to release the glue smells, but there's little relief in the feeble breeze limping in. Kurt reaches for the glass of soda on his nightstand. Condensation on its surface has warmed to rivulets of water; he takes care not to drip on his bedspread. Upon the bed are two swatches of fabric he hasn't yet decided between. He looks at them and takes a mouthful of drink. It's gone tepid and syrupy. He makes a face and sets it aside.

Kurt shoves his damp hands through his drooping hair, pushing it back off his forehead. His hands come away sticky with hairspray, so he wipes them off on the front of his t-shirt, and he tries to think over the pulse bludgeoning the inside of his skull.

The two swatches are his primary candidates for upholstering both the mattress in the pop-up and the fold-out bench seat. There's the one Kurt likes best, that draws his eye: a retro modern geometric print of interlocking white squares on a navy field. And then there's the one he thinks Finn may prefer: a more conservative and simple navy blue chenille. His basic palette is navy blue, ivory, and amber, with some (mostly faux due to weight considerations) natural finishes as accents: metal, wood, and stone. The goal is to calm the bright orange into something less flamboyant. So far, Finn's liked the individual elements Kurt's shown him, but Kurt has yet to present the entire concept.

Thus, today he's assembling a design board of samples and paint chips and swatches, along with inspirational magazine clippings, and his own sketches and computer renderings. He's optimistic. He'll present it to Finn tonight, and Kurt hopes Finn will give him a green light. It's taken Kurt all the long weeks Puck and Finn have been doing the bodywork to pull it together. He's aimed for something understated, traditional, masculine, and elegant. Nothing too kitschy or too bold. He's relying on the finer details, richness of texture and quality, to make it special. He hopes it's special.

The bench seat dominates the living area, so the fabric has to be the right one. Kurt rubs the tension at the base of his skull and lowers himself to the floor. He leans back against the edge of his mattress. The incomplete design board lies on the floor beside him with his hot glue gun. He looks at what he's got so far, but he's been staring at all the components for so long, he's having a hard time telling if he even likes it anymore. His fingertips wander to the fabric swatches for the throw pillows. They're still his favorite part, the chamois-soft microsuede in burnt orange and the shaggy vanilla faux fleece.

Kurt tips his head back as he squeezes the back of his neck. His mouth is feeling gummy and saccharine stale after all the soda he's drunk this morning. He needs a break.

#

Downstairs is blessedly cool and quiet; no one else is home. In the kitchen, Kurt pours himself a large glass of ice water and grabs a couple of nectarines from the fruit bowl on the island. They're from a local orchard, tree-ripened, so the flesh is the perfect texture, firm and yielding. Kurt eats them over the sink with the sweet juices running from his hands down to drip from his elbows.

After Kurt's washed the stickiness from his arms, he takes his glass of water to the living room and slumps down on the sofa. The push of cold dry air from the vent above him ruffles his hair and cools his skin. Kurt sighs his contentment. The acid of the fruit has the water tasting sour upon his tongue, but he drinks it all anyway and lets himself sink into the sofa cushions, enjoys the cool, dim silence.

His head's still throbbing, though with less ferocity. He can feel the tension loosening at his temples as he fishes his phone from his pocket and checks it for messages. There're a few texts from Blaine, but nothing more significant than sweet notes and updates on his day.

Blaine's been on a weird shift schedule at Six Flags, working most evenings and the weekends, so they haven't seen each other much since Blaine began his summer gig there. Blaine has several weekday mornings and afternoons off, but Kurt doesn't. He'll have to ask his Dad for some more flexibility with his garage schedule.

Kurt sends a few texts back: humorously melodramatic tales of his sore head, a report on his present fabric conundrum, and his general state of missing Blaine and hope for some quality time soon. He sits for a while longer, letting his imagination flip between the two fabric options. As much as he loves the print, he suspects it'll be too much for Finn.

He goes back upstairs and decisively glues the chenille to the board next to the photo of the sofa that's inspired him. Then, after just a moment's hesitation, he adds the geometric print to the collage of accent materials.

#

Finn returns early from his date with Rachel, just after nine. If the sullen set to his jaw is anything Kurt's learned to read, it didn't go well. Which isn't good news for Kurt, because he knows he can't just shove the design board under Finn's nose while he's stewing over whatever went wrong with Rachel. With his work ready to present to Finn, Kurt's increasingly impatient with the desire for him to see it. Until he has Finn's approval, he can't move forward. Kurt's certain Finn will like what he's done. He just needs to hear it. So he's got to improve Finn's mood.

As he puts together a tray of Finn's favorite snacks, Kurt feels only a small pang of guilt. It's not entirely self-serving to cheer up Finn; he doesn't like to see his stepbrother upset. Even though there's a limit to what Kurt can reasonably do for him—Rachel's his friend too—Kurt feels obliged to try. Twinkies, Lay's barbecue potato chips, and Mountain Dew had better work.

Kurt finds Finn outside on the patio in the deepening dark. The last ember glow of sunset fades from the sky above, retreating behind them. A warm easterly breeze has picked up, whispering through the trees and bringing the soapy sweet scent of jasmine from over the back fence. Kurt sets the tray down upon the squat end-table next to Finn. Then he gets the long-neck lighter from the cupboard under the grill and lights the citronella candles. "Hey," he says as he picks up one of the metal chairs from around the dining table. He carries it closer to where Finn's reclined on the _chaise longue_. Then he picks up a Twinkie from the tray and tosses it toward Finn, who catches it without even looking up.

"Hey," Finn replies without enthusiasm. He unwraps the Twinkie and bites it in half.

Kurt waits for him to swallow. "_Qu'est-ce qui se passe_?" he asks and hopes Finn remembers that one.

But Finn doesn't smile like he usually does. Just makes a soft grunt and twitches an incomplete shrug.

"That bad?" Kurt asks. "What happened?"

A heavy sigh and Finn rolls his gaze toward Kurt without moving his head. "You're lucky you don't date girls."

Kurt frowns. In his experience, girls are perfectly good company. Once sexual interest is a factor though, Kurt knows that complicates things, and Rachel can be trying on her best day. He's pretty sure it's not actually a girl thing. "Well, um, have you tried talking to her... about whatever it is?"

"Talking?" Finn says. "She wouldn't _stop_ talking. More like yelling. But yeah, no, I couldn't get a word in."

Kurt passes Finn another Twinkie and reminds himself to blink. In the silence between them, a frog begins to croak nearby. "Would talking to me help?" he asks.

Finn turns his head to look at Kurt directly, and he doesn't unwrap the Twinkie immediately. "Maybe?" Finn says. "Except, you're like friends with her, so..." Finn frowns.

"Which means I may have some insight," Kurt says, smiling with more assurance than he feels. "I won't break your confidence, Finn, or pick sides, but I can at least listen, right?"

"I guess." Finn reaches for a soda and pops the can with a hiss. He takes a long swallow and says, "I ripped her bra."

"Oh..." Kurt says. "Um?"

Finn's eyes go wide. "No, dude, not like— I wasn't being rough or anything."

"Okay," Kurt says, and he hopes this isn't going to head into the realm of far too much information.

"We were just, you know..." Finn lowers his voice. "...fooling around and I had my hand on her boob, and I caught my fingernail in the lace, and I tore it. She totally freaked out."

"Was it the lavender and red one?"

It's Finn's turn to be bewildered. "How do you know that?"

"I was with her when she bought it," Kurt explains, and he knows why Rachel was angry. "It was very expensive."

"That's what she said! Like twenty times. She just wouldn't stop, and it's not like I did it on purpose, but she sure acted like I did. There was nothing I could do or say to calm her down. She just kept getting madder."

"Did you..." Kurt ventures carefully. "... offer to replace it?"

Finn blinks at him. "No."

"Um, maybe try that?" Kurt says. "It may help."

"But it was an accident!"

"Doesn't matter," Kurt says. "It's a gesture of good will and it shows her you care."

Finn makes an odd face.

"You do care about her, right?"

"Of course I do, but, I mean, it's just underwear."

"Expensive and fancy underwear that she chose very carefully, in part, to be seen and appreciated by you."

"But I don't care if she wears fancy underwear," Finn says. "I'm interested in her, not her bra."

Kurt sighs. "Not entirely the point, Finn."

Finn's quiet for a while then. He reaches for the bowl of chips and munches on a few thoughtfully. Then he nods to himself and asks, "Would you help me find a replacement? Maybe I could surprise her with it?"

Bra shopping with Finn sounds like a comically strange endeavor, but if Kurt doesn't offer his assistance, Finn's less likely to do it. "A surprise sounds like a nice idea," Kurt says with an encouraging smile. "Sure."

"_Bueno_!" Finn says, smiles. "Thanks, little brother."

#

It's been at least three full minutes that Finn's been standing by Kurt's bed looking at the design board. He hasn't said anything yet. He's just shifting his weight from foot to foot, tilting his head, and squinting at the board. Next to him, Kurt's got his hands clasped tightly, twisting his interlocked fingers together and biting his lip to keep silent. As the second hand sweeps around the clock on his desk, his insides jitter more and more.

When it ticks past twelve a fourth time, Kurt can't contain himself. "Say something," he says. "Please?"

"Um," Finn says.

"_Finn_," Kurt says. "Just tell me what you think."

"I'm sorry," Finn says slowly. "But it's just not..."

"What?" The clock keeps ticking and Kurt's abruptly too hot and dizzy in entirely the wrong way. "It's not what?"

"I don't know," Finn says, and he gives Kurt a nervous look. "But I, I don't like it."

"You don't like it?" Kurt repeats. It doesn't make sense. He tried so hard to make sure Finn, most of all, would like it. "But... you liked everything I showed you. Everything."

"Well, yeah," Finn says unhelpfully.

"I don't understand," Kurt says, feels the rush of blood sweeping his headache back up to strength. The momentum of growing indignation pushes out the next words, caustic and accusatory: "Were you _lying_ to me?"

"What? Dude, no!" Finn's speaking louder now, too. Petulant and defensive. "I liked what you showed me, but seeing it together like this, it's, like, all grown-up and boring."

Kurt clenches his teeth and tips his head back to look up at his ceiling. The light fixture casts a rumpled starburst shape across the plaster. He makes himself take a deep breath. "It's not grown-up and boring. It's understated and classic."

"Whatever," Finn says. "I don't like it, Kurt."

"_Whatever_?" Kurt asks. "Are you _kidding_ me? Do you know how hard I worked on this? _For you_?"

"You said you wanted me to be honest!"

"And you couldn't have been a little more honest sooner? Before I'd got this far? If I have to start over, Finn? God, it's going to take so much more time."

"I told you I was being honest!" Finn says. "Don't call me a liar just because I didn't imagine how it was going to all look together."

"You didn't _imagine_? You were supposed to imagine it! That was the whole damned point of me showing things to you. You were supposed to imagine them together and tell me what you thought, not just smile and nod to humor me."

"Jeez, Kurt, you're as bad as Rachel. I should've just let her yell at me some more."

"Don't you dare," Kurt says, holding up a hand, fingers extended; he can feel the tears, springing up hot behind his eyes. "I am _not_—" He steps back and takes a steadying breath. "The design is traditional and masculine, Finn. I didn't do anything _fancy_." Kurt's surprised at the bitterness of his own words, and the way his voice gives out over the last syllable. The pressure of his headache has grown into his chest, and his vision blurs and burns.

And Finn just stands there, in Kurt's bedroom, staring at him like some big dumb lump.

Kurt can't be there for a second longer. This is his space, his home, but it's Finn's now too, and Kurt cannot be there. He snatches his satchel from his desk chair and pivots on his heel to leave. "Tell Dad I'll be at the garage." It's one place he's allowed to be after curfew.

#

The drive calms him. Alone in his car, the hushed white noise purr of his car's engine has always been a kind of solace. The hiss of the tires on the road, the vibrations of the steering wheel. He blinks a scatter of tears from his eyes as he pulls in behind the garage. He doesn't get out immediately, just keys off the engine and sits. Eliza rests, a polished steel skeleton, in the wash of pale light from the security floods.

With a sigh, Kurt undoes his seat belt and opens the door. He doesn't bother locking the car. Strange that he's nervous as he approaches Eliza. With his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, he's wary, as if she too will judge him lacking. She's silent and sightless, as if she's keeping secrets. But Kurt's not superstitious, not really. Except Blaine was right: naming her changed her. Or Kurt's sense of her. She's no longer just a stripped down empty hulk, but a living machine waiting for renewal. It's fanciful and nothing he truly believes, but it is like she has a spirit; he can feel it in the memory of her as she came apart beneath his hands.

He can recall every difficult bolt and stripped screw, every perished piece of rubber and cracked plastic part he marked for replacement. His hand trails over her burnished silver surface, lingers with tenderness on the duller patches where she's had her rust repaired. Even without her engine, wheels, or headlights, he feels her. He was going to make her beautiful again.

And he's spent so much time inside her now, not only physically, but in his mind, imagining her with the finishes and details he's chosen: glossy painted cabinetry with recessed oval panels, the galvanized steel veneer for the counters, the wallpaper that looked so much like wood paneling you couldn't tell it wasn't without touching it. There were the hammered bronze upholstery nails to detail the edges of the bench seat (If he closes his eyes, he can feel the line of them bump beneath his fingers), the marble textured shades for the wall mounted lamps that would cast such a gentle light, and the flexible slate-look vinyl tiles. Everything was light weight, durable, and easy to clean.

But now he has to let that vision fade. He won't be realizing any of it. Whether Finn will even still want his input on the interior, Kurt can't guess. He sniffs and wipes beneath his eye with the edge of his wrist. He doesn't want to cry over this.

Kurt sets his bag at his feet and sits at the edge of her side door opening. Her metal bones are hard and warm beneath his backside. His fingers curl over her bare sandblasted surface. She'll be painted this week, bright and shiny orange like the candy-coating on an M&M.

It's stupid that he'd hoped for a better outcome; he shouldn't be surprised that Finn remains too much of a philistine to appreciate Kurt's work. The cowboy theme would have got a better reception. It's just that he thought he and Finn were through this, and had been for some time now. But he fears they've returned to a place Kurt doesn't wish to revisit. They're family now; he doesn't like feeling so alien again.

From his satchel, his phone chimes with a new text message. With some trepidation, Kurt leans over and fishes it out of the front pocket. If it's Finn, it had better be some kind of olive branch. He's afraid to look, but he doesn't let his gaze flinch from the screen as he taps through to his new messages.

It's from Blaine. Relief and affection displace some of the tension and sadness. Blaine's text reads, "Finally off work. Such a long day! I missed you. 3 Quid agis, amate?"

_'What's up, beloved?'_ Kurt smiles involuntarily; he knows that one. As far as he can tell it's pretty hard to flirt in Latin, but ever since his attempts with French, Blaine reciprocates in small ways. "Long day here too," Kurt types. " He pauses, sighs, and types more, "Finn didn't like the design." The words sit static and irrefutable on his screen waiting for him to punch 'send'. Finn didn't like it. Kurt's head feels five pound heavier, and his heart too. He sends the text.

It's a few minutes before his phone announces Blaine's reply. Kurt imagines he's gathering his things to go home, or walking across the parking lot. "Really? Did he say why?"

"Not really. I don't think he has the vocabulary," Kurt types.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"Are you home?"

"Garage. Needed some space."

Another delay stretches out before Kurt gets a response. "R U OK?" (Blaine must have his hands full to resort to that.)

"I hope you're not texting and driving."

"No. Sorry. :P Let me try again. Are you okay, Kurt?"

Kurt shrugs as he types back, "Disappointed more than anything & I don't want to go home."

"Hang on," Blaine texts. "I have to drive now. Pretend I'm hugging you. I love you."

"Love you too."

A half hour or more passes. Kurt's Dad calls to check on him. Kurt says he's fine; he just wanted to look at the camper again after Finn vetoed his first design. Kurt leans against the edge of the opening and closes his eyes. Maybe he can still do something with plaid fabric and melamine veneers. Seventies inspired. Avocado green and mustard yellow to go with the orange. Cocoa brown accents and shag carpets. It seems a bit tacky to him, but maybe Finn will like it better. Or maybe he should stop thinking about it altogether. He opens his eyes.

The ginger cat who lives nearby and sometimes hangs around the garage has turned up out of the night. Kurt watches him pace warily across the asphalt, tail low and ears swiveled back. Kurt extends a hand, but the cat doesn't approach him. Apparently having a human here at the wrong time is a disruption to routine. The cat stalks about Eliza, sniffing the edges of her, before jumping up and in through the windscreen. Kurt leans back to watch the cat explore the empty space inside; his paws make muffled thumps across the metal floor and his long tail twitches. "I'm sorry I don't have anything for you," he says. The cat ignores him.

"I hope it doesn't still smell like a dog," he says as the cat rubs his face against the open driver side space. His eyes meet Kurt's, curious and celadon green in the slanting blade of light. "I wish I knew your name," Kurt says. He offers his hand again, and the cat comes over to sniff; his whiskers tickle the back of Kurt's knuckles. And then the cat is off again, down to explore the rear of Eliza.

"Tiger?" Kurt tries.

No reaction.

"Stripes? Or... Tigger?

"How about Morris? Garfield? Tom?"

Nothing.

"Sylvester? Scratchy? Felix?"

The cat sits down in a shadowed corner and begins washing his face.

"Of course your name wouldn't be anything so common. Beauregard? Fortinbras? Jean-Pierre?

"Ramses? Mozart? Aristotle?

"Le Chat? El Gato?"

Still nothing.

"Hmm," Kurt says. "You seem to like Eliza. How about Henry Higgins?"

The cat puts down his paw and looks at Kurt again.

"Okay, then, we'll go with that."

The growl of a car engine draws closer, and Henry Higgins' ears prick and his eyes widen. Kurt leans forward and looks out to see Blaine's car pulling in beside his. Kurt smiles and straightens his back. The bare metal is starting to make his backside go numb, so he stands as Blaine shuts his car door with a _chunk_ and walks over. He waves. "Hi," Blaine says. The cat hops down from Eliza and stands next to Kurt. His tail brushes the back of Kurt's bare calf.

"Hi," Kurt says. "I wasn't expecting you." He brings a hand to his hair; it's well mangled. Sweating through hairspray has left it in a stubbornly tousled mockery of his usual style. "Did you come straight here?" Blaine looks freshly showered and shaved; his hair is smoothly combed, and he smells of shampoo and soap. He's in a red polo, dark cuffed jeans, and his boat shoes. Kurt feels disheveled and overexposed in his faded 'Hummel Tires & Lube' t-shirt, Madras shorts, and last year's canvas slip-ons. He jams his hands in his pockets so he doesn't keep fussing self-consciously with his hair.

"Yeah," Blaine says, his gaze is warm as he reaches out to run his hand down Kurt's arm. "I missed you, and you sounded unhappy in your texts."

"Mmm," Kurt says.

"Who's this?" Blaine asks as he crouches down in front of the cat.

"I think we've agreed that Henry Higgins is an acceptable form of address," Kurt says. "He lives nearby."

"Just you wait, 'enry 'iggins," Blaine says in a truly terrible cockney accent that makes Kurt laugh. Henry Higgins approaches Blaine's outstretched hand and deigns to have his ears rubbed.

"I think he likes you."

"So," Blaine says, peering up at Kurt with a note of flirtatious wheedling in his voice. "I thought I would come here, and invite you out for an ice cream."

"At eleven o'clock on a weeknight?"

"You have something else you're meant to be doing at eleven on a weeknight? I know for a fact you don't have homework and there's a parlor still open here in Lima. I did my research."

"I'm not meant to be anywhere but here or home after eleven, but I'd love to," Kurt says; he slips his phone from his pocket and thumbs across the screen of his phone to wake it. "I'll have to ask my Dad."


	8. Chapter 8

Blaine takes Kurt to Pete's. It's a place Kurt has known existed. The fifties era ice cream parlor has been a landmark for as long as Kurt remembers, but his Dad always stopped at Dairy Queen. Alongside the road, the neon outlining Pete's big ice cream cone sign glows a bright welcome in white and orange. The glass block front and flat ridged roof are so familiar to Kurt, he's always thought of it as a bit sad and tacky. It takes him a moment to see the place as Blaine may be seeing it. Vintage advertisements hang in the wide plate glass window at the side, and colorful stylized ice cream cones are painted in a playful line on the wall beside. It's well maintained, retro, and—as Kurt looks at it with fresh eyes, he realizes—pretty cool.

"Would you believe I've never actually been here?" Kurt says to Blaine as they pull in and park.

"It said they make their own ice cream," Blaine says. That's something Kurt can respect. He even dredges up some anticipation as they get out of the car, though the heaviness in his heart persists, a dull foundation to his mood.

There're only two other cars in the parking lot. Inside, an older couple sits in a corner booth with milkshakes, and a bored college-age girl in a pink and white striped uniform attends the counter. Blaine orders a sundae, Kurt a banana split, and they ask for a bowl of shoestring fries to share. They choose a table by the window and sit on curvy metal and vinyl chairs. The floor is shiny green and white checkered linoleum; Elvis Presley sings about his blue suede shoes.

Blaine smiles at Kurt, and Kurt does his best to smile back. Now that he's sitting down with Blaine, he's profoundly tired, still stuck swinging on an unwanted pendulum ride between sad and angry with disappointed still the wide center of the arc. "How was your day?" he asks Blaine.

"Fine," Blaine says, a note of dismissal there. His gaze is concerned and intent resting upon Kurt. "Tell me about yours," he says, low and soft and certain.

It feels like that day at Dalton over coffee. Blaine's got the same look, the same tone of voice. And Kurt feels the same flavor tears spring up sharp. He bites his lip to stop it from trembling. Hadn't he told Blaine this version of himself was in the past? The old, alien loneliness has no right to be welling up. He's meant to be done with all of that. He's not lonely any longer.

"Hey," Blaine says gently. He starts to reach across the table, but then withdraws his hand again with a regretful grimace. "You're not okay."

Kurt shakes his head. Has to release his lip to breathe, it comes out a sob. His voice is frail and high, but he keeps it soft. "I never wanted to feel this way again with Finn," he says. "I thought we were friends now, brothers, you know? But it's all just the same as it was."

"I don't know your history with Finn," Blaine says. "But I've had some rough times with my brother. You can tell me about it, if you want."

Kurt blinks back his tears. He's not going to cry in public. The girl brings their ice creams and fries. Blaine thanks her, and Kurt unwraps his long metal spoon from its napkin. Once the girl has retreated back to behind the counter, he starts to talk.

It's not easy, finding the words and bringing them up around the lump lodged in his chest, but he does, because he can see that Blaine cares, that he wants to hear them. Kurt starts with what happened tonight, the conversation in his room. (He still can't get over Finn calling the design "boring".) And then, to try to provide context for how Finn's judged him in the past, he tells Blaine about Sam—

("Sam's your friend who delivered the pizza, right?" Blaine interrupts to ask. Kurt confirms and continues.)

—and the duets assignment, and that leads to more about Karofsky and the black-eye Sam got for defending Kurt when Finn wasn't. Some of the things he hasn't told Blaine before. He tells Blaine about trying to teach Finn to dance in the choir room. His Dad cornering Karofsky in the hall. How scared Kurt was for his Dad in that moment. Then more about Sam and how they never did sing together, and how he and Sam became friends anyway, and how Kurt knows now that Finn had been wrong about Kurt singing with Sam back then, but he'd believed him at the time, ultimately because of the things his father said to him. He feels weird about it now. A little guilty, a little betrayed. Sad. Still confused.

There was, of course, progress after that; so he tells the story of the wedding and how Finn sang to him, and then Kurt backtracks all the way to when he was going to sing to Finn himself, the Olivia Newton John song about being resigned to and accepting a hopeless, unrequited love. He never got to sing that song either, and he wonders if it would've helped if he had. So then he has to tell Blaine about sharing the room in the basement and what happened there, but he doesn't dwell long on those events, doesn't tell Blaine everything.

Somehow he winds up talking about the time he and Finn spent on Jean Sylvester's funeral, because he'd felt so close to Finn then, and Kurt starts to cry again, so he has to stop talking. He scoops at the last of his melting ice cream and can't quite look up at Blaine. Everything coming out of his mouth, the disordered sequence of it, all feels like a jumble of non sequiturs. The emotional logic of it isn't in the details, but the details are all he has to tell.

"You really do love him, don't you?" Blaine says eventually.

"What?" Kurt says, stunned, abruptly flushing hot as his tears cease. "No, I'm... so over him, I have been for a long time. Blaine, I love _you_."

"I don't mean romantically."

Kurt blinks. "Of course I _care_ about him," Kurt says. "But... love? Why should I love someone who's hurt me like that?"

"If I knew the answer, I'd be a smarter person than I am. But I think, sometimes, we're uniquely vulnerable to the people we love."

"I don't want to be vulnerable to Finn," Kurt says bitterly, and he finds his anger resurfacing. "I just want him to be..." Kurt drops his spoon into his empty glass dish with a clatter. "Someone who doesn't make me feel like crap as easily as he does."

Blaine smiles sympathetically. Then he stands up and extends a hand toward Kurt. He tilts his head toward the door. "Come on."

Kurt glances over toward the counter. The girl has her back to them. The other couple is gone. He takes Blaine's hand.

#

After the chill of air conditioning and ice cream, the summer night is humid enough, it cloaks them in welcome warmth. They walk back to the car, hand in hand, letting go only when they must. "You like Duran Duran, right?" Blaine asks over the top of the car. The car makes a muffled _thunk_ as Blaine unlocks it.

Curiosity overwhelms his general grumpiness. Kurt rolls his eyes and smiles weakly. "Who doesn't?"

Blaine returns Kurt's smile with a brilliant flash of his own, says, "They were my brother's favorite band when we were young, and so, of course, they were my favorite band for a long time after he left."

"Okay," Kurt says as he slides into the passenger seat and closes the door. He's not sure what Duran Duran or Blaine's brother's musical taste has to do with anything right now, but Blaine moves and speaks as if he has a plan.

Inside the car, with the dome light illuminating the interior, Blaine looks at him, and there's something glittering bright in his gaze. Something Kurt hasn't seen before. "Do you trust me?" Blaine asks as he pulls the driver side door closed and the interior light cuts out.

The way Blaine asks the question, as if this is truly something important, stops Kurt from answering with a glib, 'of course'. Without the light, Kurt can no longer see his expression well enough to try to read anything more there. He reaches for Blaine's hand where it's resting on the buckle of his seatbelt. "What are you asking me?"

"Sometimes, when I'm feeling... frustrated, I have this playlist I listen to. Sometimes I drive with it, so I thought maybe we could go for a _drive_."

The suggestive way Blaine says 'drive' makes Kurt's heart beat faster. A glance at the clock shows he has a half hour left before his amended curfew. His breath catches. "Okay."

Street light glints on Blaine's teeth when he smiles. "Buckle up," he says (Kurt does), and Blaine starts the engine. He thumbs the click-wheel on his iPod, pushes play, and then backs out, swinging the car toward the parking lot exit with decisive—and alarming—speed.

The music starts. Gentle piano at first, but it's swiftly swamped by a menacing electric guitar, and it's nothing by Duran Duran Kurt recognizes; it's not even remotely romantic. He wonders what he's got himself into. 'Drive' is clearly not a euphemism for driving somewhere private and making-out in the back of Blaine's car.

In the pause before they pull out of Pete's driveway, Kurt asks, "Blaine?"

"Just try to relax," Blaine says. "And let yourself feel it." Then he dials the volume up loud enough any further conversation is impossible, and he pulls out onto the long, dark road, heading south. It's the opposite direction from the way they came.

There are no cars ahead of them. Blaine accelerates _fast_—fast enough that Kurt's pressed back, breathing rapidly and shallowly, and gripping the sides of his seat with stiff fingers. The music wails and thunders around him. It's all instrumental, impulsive, aggressive. Strange and terrifying. "Oh god," Kurt says; he can't even hear himself.

Kurt tears his gaze from the black ribbon of road unfurling too fast in front of them, looks at Blaine. Blaine's the image of calm concentration, his eyes are clear upon the road, never straying to Kurt, just minute flicks to the shoulders, down to his instruments, then back to the distance ahead. A glance at the speedometer shows they're passing seventy miles per hour and still accelerating.

Kurt can't breathe. He shuts his eyes, but that only makes it worse, makes him more aware of the gravity at his back, how it swings around him as Blaine takes a wide turn without slowing. He's hurtling along, out of control in the night. There's too much momentum.

He opens his eyes, looks out the side window. The sparse ranks of trees lining the road whip past, backlit by the waxing half moon. Their tops seem to drag at its stationary pale belly. The guitar screams, and the drums pound as hard as Kurt's heart. They're heading toward the river, Kurt realizes.

It's a cold sweat prickling his skin as the music slams into silence. Blaine's foot comes off the accelerator and they swing into a tighter turn. But before Kurt can rally his breath for words, the next song kicks in with bright pulsing synthesizer and funky throbbing bass.

"_Yes, we're miles away from nowhere..._" Simon Le Bon sings. It's an old song, one Kurt recognizes from the Rio album, "Hold Back the Rain". It's on his own driving playlist. With the less frenetic beat, Blaine lets the car coast, gradually bleeding off their excess speed. The familiar music is less suffocating; Kurt manages to take a deep, even breath and release the fierce grip of his hands on the seat.

Kurt remembers what Blaine told him, and he tries to relax. The road curves in toward the river; Blaine takes each arc, neat and smooth. The water paces them, black in the night. Moonlight snags against its ripples, live silver wires in the dark.

And... it's okay. Somehow, it's okay. The car is slowing—still speeding, but it feels less helter skelter—the steady pulse of bass syncs with the heartbeat in Kurt's throat. Everything eases, and it feels like he has become the stationary point in the universe just then, everything else revolves about his axis. Kurt breathes, Blaine drives, and the music plays.

They glide on, cleaving to the graceful bend of the river road, through the ruthless energy of the new single, "Girl Panic," and Kurt watches Blaine as he sings along, "_'The heat is wrapping 'round us / This city's strapped around us.'_"

And his gaze is caught. He keeps staring at Blaine, though Blaine's concentration never once wavers, and Kurt doesn't dare interrupt him. He lets himself sink into the music as it soars.

"_... the midnight traffic in her eyes / like a hypnotic, and I am mesmerized._"

#

By the time they've turned back in to the garage, the playlist has moved onto the melancholy and poignant "Ordinary World": "_Ours is just a little sorrowed talk / And I don't cry for yesterday / There's an ordinary world..._"

Blaine parks the car, but they don't make any move to get out until the music fades and no new song begins.

The first breath Kurt takes in the silence is bizarrely difficult—jagged—as if the tops of his lungs don't want to accept the air. And the first look Blaine gives him, after what feels like hours, is hesitant and vulnerable.

They stay in that moment for a while, quietly suspended in uncertainty and wonder. Kurt doesn't know how to name what they just shared. His entire body still hums with too much adrenaline, and he's oddly wrung out as the exhilaration fades from his blood. He looks away from Blaine to Eliza. She's exactly as they left her, and that familiarity is discordant. Kurt doesn't feel the same, but he's not sure how to mark the change.

He wonders if this is how it works, Blaine's ritual. Start with anger, apply danger and music, transform it into something else. Then he wonders how often Blaine does this. He's almost afraid to know the answer. The thought of it isn't comforting or thrilling, not at all.

Blaine touches his forearm, says his name quietly, and Kurt turns his attention back.

"That was dangerous," Kurt says, just as quietly.

"I'm a good driver," Blaine says, matter of fact, not at all defensively. And it's true enough, but that doesn't make it not dangerous. Still, Kurt doesn't want to argue with Blaine.

"You scared me," Kurt says; he has to be honest.

Blaine drops his gaze to where one of his hands still rests on the steering wheel. "Do you still feel scared?" he asks without looking up.

Kurt shakes his head, says, "No."

Blaine cocks his head, a glance at Kurt. "How do you feel?"

"Different," he says.

"Better?"

"I... yeah. I think so." Kurt tests the word: "Better."

The sweetest smile of relief from Blaine. "Good."

"But I don't want to do that again, at least not like that."

"All right," Blaine says.

"I don't like to think about you doing it again either."

"I don't do it often. The driving," Blaine says, and then his words take on the hushed tone of confession: "Usually I... hit a heavy bag. I box."

Kurt sees it in a flash: Blaine pounding all his anger into a big leather punching bag. It's not hard to imagine it. He remembers how fiercely Blaine threw himself at Karofsky in the school hall the night of New Direction's benefit concert. It's strange though: a part of Blaine he finds remote and alarming. Less so now, though. He thinks he understands better now.

Kurt smiles, reaches to cover Blaine's hand on his arm with his own. "Something else your brother taught you?"

Blaine shakes his head. "No, something I did on my own. After the Sadie Hawkins dance, I asked for lessons, for self-defense, and my Dad approved."

And that thought, of Blaine feeling the need to defend himself physically with violence makes Kurt feel ill. But he can't fix the world for Blaine, and Blaine can't fix the world for him. Some days all they can do is this. "Does it help?" Kurt asks.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "Most of the time." He's thoughtful and silent for a moment; his jaw works, clenching and relaxing as if there's something else he wants to say to Kurt.

Kurt waits.

"Since I met you," Blaine says. "I don't do it as much. I don't need to."

Kurt nods, feels a smile pull at his lips.

Blaine looks at him, urgency in his gaze. "Kurt, can I—?" Blaine says. "Can I kiss you?"

"You don't have to ask," Kurt says.

Blaine lunges at him then, kisses far too hard and off center. It's rough and their teeth crash together painfully. Kurt ends up biting Blaine's lip and mashes his own nose uncomfortably against Blaine's cheekbone when he tries to recover. It's by far the worst kiss they've shared. Kurt starts laughing, and they break apart.

"Ow," Blaine says, sucking at his abused lip, but amusement lights his eyes.

"That was terrible," Kurt says, covering his mouth.

"Awful," Blaine agrees.

Kurt looks at the time, and immediately wishes he hadn't. "I should go soon," he says, pushes a regretful sigh through his smile. "Thanks for coming all the way out here to cheer me up."

"Anytime," Blaine says, "So long as you're actually cheered."

Kurt shrugs. "Not cheered exactly, but you helped clear my head, and I think..." Kurt lets out a long breath. "...maybe I overreacted earlier, with Finn."

Blaine's serious as he nods. "He loves you too, Kurt," Blaine says. "I don't need to know him well to know that, from everything you've told me and what time I have spent with him—you guys can figure this out."

"I hope so," Kurt says, surprised by how fervently he means it. "Thank you," he says to Blaine, and then, with a grin he asks, "Now, before I go, may I please have a decent kiss good night?"

#

By the time Kurt gets home, whatever may be left of his disappointment has turned itself inside out. It's a hollow ache behind his breastbone. The things he said to Finn were, some of them, responses to things Finn didn't actually say to him. Kurt realizes he's been unfair. He goes upstairs and looks for the glow of light from beneath Finn's door. Hears the uneven, muted thump of whatever game Finn's playing.

Kurt gets ready for bed. He feels refreshed after a quick, cool shower. In his pajamas and robe, he goes back downstairs to the kitchen and heats enough milk for two mugs. Injuries to his pride are hardly a novel pain, and if this one seemed worse, Kurt suspects Blaine is right: it's because Kurt loves Finn that he's reacted so badly to Finn's awkwardly expressed criticism. So he's going to take the olive branch himself: warm milk and an offer of calmer, more constructive conversation. Kurt puts the mugs on a tray, along with a few homemade oatmeal cookies, and takes it up to Finn's room.


	9. Chapter 9

Finn's cleaned up his room since the last time Kurt was in here. His curtains billow around the open window, and the room smells green and fresh, like warm foliage rather than old socks. "May I come in, please?" Kurt asks from the open door.

When Finn looks up from his game, his expression is peculiarly unreadable. Kurt makes himself smile as he lifts the tray to draw Finn's attention to it, but his voice is too high when he says, "I made you warm milk and brought some cookies. It's a... peace offering."

With a gusty sigh, Finn drops the game controller, scoots back on his bed, and rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, come in." He sounds tired.

Kurt sets the tray on Finn's desk and passes Finn one of the mugs. "I may have overreacted earlier," Kurt says cautiously. He runs his hands down his thighs and glances at the desk chair, unsure of his welcome. "I'm sorry for that."

"Are you still mad at me?" Finn asks. He pulls his legs up until he's sitting cross-legged and hunched over, looking up at Kurt, half accusatory, half expectant.

"No," Kurt says gently, and takes Finn's posture as invitation to seat himself. He swivels the chair around and sits facing Finn, takes the other mug between his hands, and rests it on his knee. "I'm not mad at all."

When Finn doesn't say anything further immediately, Kurt takes a moment to look around Finn's room again, at the uninspired furnishings. Realizes it is, a lot of it, traditional and masculine—in a different way from Kurt's design, but not radically so: more in quality of degree than in kind. Honestly, it emis boring. "Is there anything in here you picked out for yourself?" Kurt wonders out loud.

Finn looks too, considers, and then shakes his head. "Not really. The model sailboat and those figurines were my Dad's, but aside from that, it's what was here when we moved in. Mom picked the bed and the desk is my old one. We got it at a yard sale when I was in middle school. I don't know where the dresser came from."

"Is there anything in here you like?" Kurt asks. "Decor wise?"

"I don't know," Finn says. "I don't really think about it."

Maybe some kind of process of elimination will work better with Finn. Kurt changes tack. "Is there anything in here you really _don't_ like?"

"The walls," Finn answers promptly enough Kurt suspects he may have spent some time thinking about it. "They're too dark." Finn says, pauses, and scowls at his room. The wallpaper is a saturated navy blue sponged texture, and the baseboards and other wood details are all dark stained pine. "Yeah, mostly, it's just too dark."

"You don't like navy blue?" Kurt asks. Finn wears it often enough, Kurt assumed it would be a good color choice.

"I guess?" Finn says. "It's, like, too heavy and close and kind of fuddy duddy. It makes the room feel small and sort of... depressing."

"So, um, was that what you didn't like in the design I did? The navy?"

"Maybe?" Finn tilts his head and purses his lips nervously.

Kurt nods, doesn't push except to ask: "If I showed you the design board again, do you think you could give me more detailed comments? Maybe we could talk about it? See if we could find a new direction to go for the design?"

Finn sits up straighter and lowers his mug to the bed. His eyes widen as he looks at Kurt. "Does that mean you still want to do it? Decorate the camper?"

Kurt presses his lips together for a moment as he double checks the impulse. Then he confirms, "Yeah, I do."

"Really?" Finn's smile spreads across his lips slowly, genuine and relieved.

It makes Kurt smile too, wide and open. "Yes. I've enjoyed helping you with this, Finn. It's been a really fun challenge so far. I'd love to keep at it. If you still want me to."

"Dude, of _course_ I do!" Finn leans over and offers his fist for a bump, so Kurt bumps it. Then, uncertain of what else to do to cement their newly restored rapport, he offers Finn a cookie.

#

They go bra shopping the next day at the mall. It's not as surreal an experience as Kurt expects. Finn doesn't want to linger in the lingerie department, fidgets the whole time they're there, and hastily waves off the sales clerk who offers to help them. "Relax, no one's going to think we're cross-dressers," Kurt tries to reassure him.

"What?" Finn asks.

"There's no way you're a thirty-two-A." Kurt holds up the lavender satin and red lace brassiere against his own chest. "And neither am I," he says.

Finn barks a surprised laugh, and takes the bra from Kurt as if it's some kind of alien lifeform.

At the gift-wrapping counter, Finn's even more nervous. It could be the way the woman doing the wrapping keeps staring at them. Kurt sighs, and says loudly enough to be clearly overheard, "Don't worry, Finn. Rachel's going to love it."

After, they go to the food court. They separate while Finn gets a burger and fries from McDonalds and Kurt gets teriyaki chicken from the teppanyaki place. Kurt finds Finn already at a table and sits down with his orange tray and plastic plate.

"I'm not embarrassed to be seen with you," Finn says.

Finn's bluntness leaves Kurt speechless as he breaks apart his chopsticks and unfolds his paper napkin. The ambient cacophony of the food court blankets them for a moment.

"I just don't like people assuming things," Finn says, and then he unwraps one of the three burgers on his tray.

That brings a crooked grin to Kurt's face. "Welcome to my life," he says.

#

It's not a bad day to be working in the garage office. Outside is muggy, gray, and hot. There's a cool, sluggish breeze that brings no relief, just makes one feel clammy and gross. Kurt hopes the rain comes soon. Eliza's primed, cured, and sanded, and Finn and Puck have been watching the weather forecast for the past week for the right conditions to finish the paint job.

His Dad has him doing data entry today: putting all the old shop records into spreadsheets and databases. It's tedious, but at least Kurt is staying clean. The mindless work is a nice break from time spent on his more creative projects. He can indulge his impulse for precision and order without having to think too much. The rhythm of perusing each entry in the paper ledger, tabbing through the fields on the computer, and typing in time to the music coming through his earbuds; it's meditative in a robotic sort of way. Easy.

Time turns into a singular slipping moment, while Kurt types and sings along softly to his iPod.

The knock on the office door startles him from the trance he's fallen into. It's his Dad. He opens the office door and the sodden heat and car smells tumble in with him. "How's it going?" his Dad asks.

Kurt pulls his earbuds out and glances at the ledger beside him; his fingers find the edge of it and ruffle the page corners. It's down about a quarter of what it was when he started this morning. "Pretty well," he says, twists in the chair to stretch.

"Blaine's arrived early," his Dad says. "You want to take the afternoon off?"

"Really?" Kurt says to both. The clock reads quarter 'til noon; his stomach agrees. The freedom his Dad is giving him with Blaine, it's a continuing pleasant surprise. It's not only that his Dad trusts him, but also that he trusts Blaine. The more latitude they get, the more grateful Kurt becomes. "That would be fantastic."

"Sure," his Dad says with a smile. "You've been working hard the past few weeks."

"Thank you, Dad," Kurt says. He gets up and gives his father a quick one armed hug, mindful of his coveralls. "You're the best."

"Yep," his Dad says, and lets Kurt go with a pat on his back.

#

Kurt brings Blaine home with him for lunch. "You can be my guinea pig," Kurt says as they enter the kitchen. Kurt flicks on the lights to compensate for the gray sky, and then he goes to the sink to wash his hands.

"Oh?" Blaine asks, a little flirtatiously.

"My Dad really misses egg salad sandwiches, and I have an idea for a curried vegan egg salad I want to test before I make it for him."

"Sounds interesting," Blaine says as he sits at the island, and Kurt loves that Blaine doesn't wrinkle his nose or make some disparagingly skeptical comment.

"The trick is not to tell him it's vegan," Kurt says. "So just tell him it's cholesterol free. If he asks." Kurt gets the fresh silken tofu from the fridge and sets it to drain on a clean dishtowel. "Something to drink?" Kurt asks as he returns to the refrigerator to get the vegan mayo, celery, and radishes.

"Juice?" Blaine says. Kurt pours them each a glass of orange juice.

Then it's light conversation about their weeks while Kurt finely dices and measures, crumbles and folds . Blaine had to fill in for Marvin the Martian on Tuesday, and Kurt laughs at Blaine's tales of amusing encounters with children and his costume drama. "I bet your legs looked good in the tights," Kurt says, and Blaine blushes adorably.

He gets Blaine to taste the salad mixture as he goes, and it turns out the magic ingredient that pulls it all together into something exceptional is the addition of mango chutney. Kurt serves it on lightly toasted whole wheat bread with a thick layer of baby spinach leaves.

Once the dishes are done, Kurt turns to Blaine and asks, "So, what do you want to do this afternoon?"

Without the smallest hesitation, Blaine replies, "You."

Kurt flushes hot in an instant; his lips part, but nothing comes out.

Blaine's bold flirtation turns more self-conscious and unsure. "I only mean... it's been a while since we..."

The combination of suggestive and bashful is both endearing and compelling. "Yeah," Kurt says. "Let's go upstairs."

#

It has been a while, but they fall into routine easily: shoes off, belts off, Blaine's wristwatch on the nightstand. Then they're on the bed, and it's here the routine sometimes fails Kurt. Too many possibilities assault his body, and he's left groping at Blaine haphazardly, pulling at his shirt hem, only to abandon it for a hold on Blaine's shoulders, before deciding his hands really need to be on Blaine's face, guiding him into a longer kiss. And then his restless hands are sliding down the curve of Blaine's spine to the small of his back and digging his fingertips into the fabric of Blaine's shirt to ruck it up and bare some skin.

"Off?" Kurt says.

"Yeah," Blaine replies, all soft breath and eagerness. "You too."

Kurt hums his agreement against Blaine's throat.

Shirtless make-outs are still a novelty. The awkward few seconds where Kurt's pulling his undershirt over his face, and he's exposed to Blaine, but he can't see Blaine looking at him, is the most oddly vulnerable—some kind of anxious peek-a-boo. It's a relief when his shirt comes free, he catches his breath, opens his eyes, and finds Blaine—also bare chested—looking at him with warmth and patient desire. Kurt's fingers flutter to his hair as Blaine reaches for him.

Blaine pulls Kurt with him as he falls to his back. Kurt settles his knee between Blaine's legs and lets his weight come down into Blaine's embrace. Sliding into each others' arms like this, skin to skin, is such a gentle shock: luxuriously smooth, warm—and so _close_.

He kisses Blaine: slow searching kisses, decadent and soft, and he twists the fingers of one hand into Blaine's loosely styled curls. Closes his eyes and sinks into the narrow focus of this new intimacy and the blossoming heat between them. Blaine's hands wander his skin, firm upon the back of his ribs, ticklish at his waist, gentle short-nailed scratches across his shoulders that make him shiver as his skin prickles hot. He feels Blaine's pulse strong against his hip, the heartbeat throb stirring his own flesh against Blaine, the way their skin grows tacky with perspiration where they touch, the sweltering glow of arousal. The way his lungs grow more greedy for air. Like this, it's incredible—literally _incroyable_. It's so good, it feels unreal.

He shifts his pelvis, to better align them. There's no intention to get off; Kurt just wants to feel them together. He withdraws his mouth from Blaine's so he can see Blaine's face: flushed cheeks and heavy gaze.

Blaine's breathless when he asks: "What about no hands below...?"

Kurt swivels his hips carefully, presses down, distinctly feels Blaine jolt harder between them. "I'm not using my hands," Kurt says. He kisses Blaine again and dares to keep moving against him, small irregular motions, not enough to result in anything climactic, but enough to tap deeper frissons of wonderful feeling from his belly. Then he pauses to breathe and ask, "Is this okay? Just... this? Not—?"

"Uh huh."

So they do that until it becomes too arduous to continue, and they have to break apart. Furnace hot, sweaty, and out of breath, Kurt's _aching_, and it's glorious to simply let his body want. He flops to his back beside Blaine. The air conditioning scatters goosebumps across his skin.

With a soft laugh, Blaine reaches for Kurt's hand, loosely tangles their fingers. "That was... wow."

"Yeah," says Kurt, feels a grin pull hard at the muscles of his cheeks. He's stupidly happy.

Blaine hoists himself up to an elbow next to Kurt, his hand is warm and lazy upon the fresh chill of Kurt's skin as he caresses across Kurt's torso: his chest, his nipples briefly (which makes Kurt gasp in surprise), and down to his belly, but no lower. The weight of Blaine's attention is nearly palpable. Kurt watches Blaine looking at him. He tries not to flinch away, resists the impulse to cover himself with his arms. Lets Blaine look; lets Blaine see him. Kurt touches Blaine's arm as he traces nonsense patterns across Kurt's bare skin.

Blaine's fingers keep returning to linger on the vivid blotchy flush across Kurt's pale chest. Kurt shudders and bites his lip, self-conscious. "I'm sure I look terrible," Kurt says. "All splotchy like I have a rash."

"No, you don't," Blaine says softly, wonderingly. "I... I _like_ it."

"You do?"

"Yeah... because it means you're, uh, really turned on, right?" Blaine's admiring gaze drags up from Kurt's chest to meet his eyes.

"I am," Kurt whispers.

"Me too," Blaine says and he leans in until he's nuzzling close to Kurt's ear, and Kurt's sucking in rapid breaths that feel too shallow no matter how hard he pulls in the air. Blaine's breath is soft against his cheek, and Kurt closes his eyes. "I really like being turned on with you," Blaine confesses shyly.

"Yeah," Kurt says. It comes out like a wheeze. "It feels really good."

"I love that I can turn you on," Blaine murmurs; his hand is quiet on Kurt's skin now, resting at Kurt's solar plexus. "The way your body gets so hot so fast when I touch you? It's amazing."

"I love it too," Kurt says. "It's better than I thought it would be."

"I'm glad," Blaine says and settles beside Kurt.

They lie together like that for a while, close as they cool off and the exhilaration fades.

Until Kurt's concerned he's going to drift to sleep. And while there's undeniable appeal in a lazy summer afternoon nap with Blaine, today he doesn't want to spend any of their time together unconscious. Kurt draws away from Blaine and sits up, reaching for where his undershirt is crumpled up by his pillow.

They put their shirts back on. "May I show you Eliza's design board version two?" Kurt asks. He'd really like some honest feedback before he shows it to Finn—who's been more involved this time, and Kurt's managed to draw out and clarify some aspects of Finn's taste, but that doesn't stop Kurt from a few lingering nerves over the project.

"Sure," Blaine says. "I'd love to see it."

Kurt gets off the bed and kneels on the floor to drag the board out from under his bed. Blaine leans over the side and peers down at it. "Wow, Kurt," he says.

Kurt tilts the board toward the light. "You like it?"

"Yeah, it's so cool." Blaine reaches down and brushes his fingers over the bright fabric swatches. "The colors are _fantastic_."

"You've been my muse. Sort of," Kurt says. "Not for the colors, I picked those, but for the general aesthetic. I went with mid-century modern, which I think is cool, too so..." Kurt smiles. "I'm glad you like it."

"I'm sure Finn will love it," Blaine says. He's so fierce in his earnestness, Kurt believes him.

"I hope so," Kurt says.

#

Later that evening, Kurt takes the board downstairs to where Finn's in the family room watching TV. His Dad and Carole are out with friends. Kurt sets it on the coffee table and sits on the sofa. Finn pauses the TV, comes over to look. Kurt doesn't have to wait long for a response. Finn's first comment is an enthusiastic, "That's awesome, dude. It's like the Jetsons!"

That makes Kurt laugh. "That's a good thing?"

Finn's response is so much an echo of Blaine's, it's _weird_ (but also gratifying): "It's so cool. I love the colors." Finn sits down beside him on the sofa.

"Really?"

"Yeah, the orange and turquoise and white are like, totally happy and summery."

The blue is actually closer to a sky blue, but Kurt resists the urge to correct Finn. "You don't mind the wood accents?" Kurt asks. He touches the photo of his inspiration piece. The curved cabinetry is timber in two tones: light honey colored tamboured doors and darker espresso stained surfaces.

"It's not too much," Finn says. "I like the rounded cabinets. And the microwave is seriously funky."

The retro designed microwave is a find Kurt's particularly proud of. "There's no robot to cook for you though," Kurt says dryly. "I'm afraid that's well beyond my skill set."

Finn laughs and looks at the board some more, commenting on other things he likes, and because Finn's such a bad liar, Kurt can tell he means all of it. Then Finn falls into a quieter contemplation for a few minutes, in which Kurt finds he's not at all nervous.

Even so, when Finn speaks again, he surprises Kurt. "You know, this one looks more like you, too."

"More like me?"

"Yeah, like, it's bold and colorful, kind of eye-catching. Modern, and fearless."

Maybe Kurt underestimated Finn's vocabulary.


	10. Chapter 10

"Dude, that _tickles_," Finn says. There's a hint of an involuntary giggle in his voice. It makes Kurt smile even as Finn's slippery, wet hand jerks out of Kurt's grip, splattering both of them and the white tiled counter with cherry scented bubbles and water.

Kurt drops the nail brush into the bathroom sink with a loud _splosh_. "Your hands are gross," he says, not without warmth, as he wipes his soap flecked cheek against his shoulder. He looks at Finn's reflection beside him in the mirror and adds, mock-sternly, "There's no way I'm letting you on a date with Rachel with your nails all jaggedy either. You don't want another bra mishap."

"That's true," Finn says complacently, and he gives Kurt his hand again to dunk it back into the soapy warm water that fills the sink.

Kurt works the little brush thoroughly over Finn's nails and the callused pads of his fingers. The latter is what makes Finn squirm and squeak in a way that's actually pretty hilarious, but Kurt doesn't laugh at Finn, just keeps grinning and gently teasing him as he scours and scrubs every trace of motor oil and engine gunge off Finn's hands. Once they're clean, Kurt says, "I'm going to exfoliate your hands, too. To help soften these calluses. Okay?"

In the bright, fuzzy glow of the bathroom light, Finn looks at him unblinking—perhaps not entirely understanding, but trusting (and that strikes a happy little fillip against Kurt's heart)—and nods.

Rubbing the apricot scrub into Finn's hands and up his forearms is apparently even more ticklish than the nail brush.

"Oh my god, Finn, keep still! What are you, five?"

Finn giggles, actually _giggles_, and tries to twist his arm free. "No, I'm five and a half!" he insists.

At that, Kurt cracks up, losing his grip on Finn's arm in order to smother his laughter against the back of his wrist. "You're an idiot," he says affectionately.

"And you're a bossy britches," Finn says in an arguably good imitation of a cranky toddler.

"I'm a _what_?" Kurt snorts and laughs harder until his vision blurs, he's doubled over, and his stomach hurts.

"You heard me," Finn says, and Kurt straightens to see Finn rinsing his arms off and grinning goofily with a little bit of something in his expression that looks like pride.

As Kurt catches his breath, he has a strange moment of feeling outside himself. Just a flash of objectivity, of seeing this moment as the unlikely and wonderful thing that it is: being playful and ridiculous with Finn in a way Kurt never imagined he could be. His amusement fades into a sort of awe and a swelling warmth in his chest. But he doesn't want to spoil anything with seriousness or sentimentality, so he clears his throat and says archly, "It's just as well, or you'd end up mauling Rachel like a caveman again, and I don't want to have to hear about all that drama again. From either of you."

"You think she'll notice?" Finn asks.

Kurt nods. "Of course she will. I can't believe how clueless you guys are sometimes. I mean, would you want Rachel touching you in potentially sensitive places if her hands were all filthy and ragged?"

Finn scrunches his nose. "You're right, that would be kinda weird."

"Weird," Kurt says. "That's one word."

After Finn's dried his hands, Kurt takes Finn back to his own room and seats him at his dresser where Kurt's already got all his manicure supplies laid out. He puts some music on—a playlist of what passes for classic rock on his iPod—and pulls his desk chair over so he's sitting opposite Finn. Then he gets started on trimming, filing, and buffing Finn's nails. Throughout the procedure, Finn is more sober and patient—and far less prone to bouts of ticklish squirming now that Kurt's working with sharp implements. They fall into a comfortable silence as Kurt works, broken only by Kurt softly prompting Finn to move when needed. It's nice.

Kurt finishes the job with a rich shea butter cream that he works into Finn's cuticles and up his forearms, massaging into the tension and ache he knows Finn will be carrying after spending the week putting Eliza back together after her paint job. He keeps expecting Finn to pull away, but he doesn't, just lets Kurt take the time it takes.

When Kurt's done, Finn is left alternating between stroking one hand with the other and marveling at how soft and smooth they are now. "Wow, that feels awesome," he says. "And my fingernails are, like, shiny. Thanks, Kurt!"

"Now go get changed," Kurt says with a smile. "Or you'll be late."

#

Now it's Kurt's turn with Eliza. While he's braced himself for the complexity of the project, done his research, and gathered his materials; on a Monday, he finds himself standing on the tarmac, tools at his feet, wondering where precisely he should start.

He's already asked Mitch—one of the other guys who works at the garage—to help him with the electrical work, and his Dad has promised to help with the plumbing and carpentry. (The sink hasn't been delivered yet.) So Kurt decides to start with sewing. That's familiar enough, it should help ease him into things.

Blaine arrives that first afternoon and helps Kurt pin and cut strips of orange and white vinyl for upholstering the driver's and passenger's seats in the cab. They work mostly on the floor, in the shade of one empty bay. The thick orange extension cord meanders across the well-scrubbed concrete to where Kurt's set up his sewing machine on a portable work bench.

They listen to Pandora on Blaine's phone, and sing along to a lot of P!nk songs together. Some time after the shop has closed, Henry Higgins comes to investigate, but he's not much help. Blaine ends up spending more time playing with the cat than he does pinning the next pieces of vinyl together for Kurt to stitch. But Kurt doesn't complain. Watching Blaine drag around an off-cut while Henry Higgins stalks him between the tire racks is worth any delays.

As the heat of the long day gentles and the sky goes pale, they continue working. Carole calls just before seven to tell them dinner will be ready soon and Blaine is welcome to stay if he has the night off. Which he does.

So they have dinner outside on the patio with his family, and then they spend the rest of the evening on the sofa in the family room eating fresh fruit and ice cream and watching _Designing Women_, because Blaine's never seen it.

#

Slowly, Eliza comes together. There are hiccups of course. The material Kurt ordered for the headliner turns out to be unsuitable to the task, and he has to get a replacement locally. The color ends up being flax where Kurt wanted eggshell, but Finn likes it well enough, so it'll have to do.

Replacing the tent canvas on the pop top takes three times as long as Kurt anticipated and requires more hands than just his and Blaine's. The mattress has to be completely replaced, too. When that's finally done, they celebrate with cheesecake.

Nevertheless, it almost feels too soon that Kurt can see the end of the project. He's alone one night in July, seated inside Eliza on the bench seat, with a work light hanging above him, when he looks up from doing the final hand-stitching on a throw pillow and realizes that, if he stays late tonight, he may just get it done. The substantial hardware is all in place, the large upholstery jobs and painting complete. It's down to the details now, and this is Kurt's favorite part: the small furnishings and fixtures and various other decor objects.

There's an anticipatory thrill knotting in his chest when Kurt calls his Dad to let him know he may not be home until late, and then he gets back to work, freshly energized.

It's close to three AM when he's ferrying the last box from the storage room out to Eliza. This one contains the acrylic glassware for the kitchen. He found wonderful short-stemmed martini glasses, tumblers, and water goblets in clear apple green. It's the perfect extra accent color. He's worked it in to a few other details, but the bright glassware is his favorite for the way it catches the light. Kurt stows them in the top cabinet, right where he knew they'd go, rolls the door closed, and steps back. He inhales around the giddiness fluttering up in his belly.

He's not quite ready to indulge the joy of a project completed. It'll be time to celebrate soon enough. He'll still need to stage the camper properly, and the small area rug has yet to be delivered, but, aside from those technicalities, he is actually done.

He's _done_, and it looks incredible. He's growing woozy with the realization—or it could be the time.

The lateness of the hour is undeniable, and he's probably too tired to drive safely, so he sends his Dad a text, locks up the shop, and goes back to Eliza. His skin will survive one night. Kurt folds down the dining table, folds back the bench seat, and curls up with the cream and orange chain-knit throw and a newly sewn throw pillow in a rectangular patterned sky blue satin. Eliza's windows are open to let in the summer's night breeze, and Kurt falls into sleep swiftly, lulled by the distant song of cicadas.

#

A knock wakes him. Kurt's disoriented at first. The feel of the space around him is wrong. The air is warmer, softened by dew, the light tinged too blue through the curtained windows, and the mattress beneath him holds his weight differently. Unfamiliar road noise dominates the ambient sounds, and then there's the dull, insistent knocking. Kurt blinks his eyes wider and lifts his head, orienting his attention toward the source of the sound.

It's Blaine, knocking on the windshield, and, in a rush, Kurt remembers the evening and where he is. With a grin, Blaine holds up a large Lima Bean cup, and Kurt sits up and waves. Groggily he shoves a hand through his hair and scoots from the mattress to unlock the door.

"Good morning," he says squinting at the bright sunlight that greets him.

"Your Dad told me you slept here," Blaine says. "I brought caffeine and breakfast pastries."

Kurt covers his mouth as he yawns, and then he takes the coffee and the brown paper bag gratefully. "Oh my god, you're some kind of precognitive boyfriend saver," he says. He takes a sip immediately, wincing at the heat. "Come in," Kurt says. "I'll just fold up the thing and we can use the table."

Blaine steps up into the camper and looks around. "Oh, hey, you've done a lot since I was last here. Those light fixtures are cool."

"Yeah," Kurt says as he pushes the bench seat back into its seat shape and folds the table up for use. "Have a seat." He gestures across the table.

"It looks great," Blaine says. He pulls out a stack of brown paper napkins from his pocket and sets them on the table between them. "Are you...? It looks like you're nearly done?"

Kurt nods through another yawn and pulls one of the sticky danishes out of the bag before passing it back to Blaine. "Stayed up late finishing. I just need that damned rug to arrive."

Blaine reaches to the tamboured doors of the cabinet next to him, runs his fingers over the flexible thin bands of wood. "Kurt, this is amazing. Finn and Puck are going to love it."

"I've forbade them both from looking for the past two weeks," Kurt says. "I want the finished product to be a surprise."

"Time to start organizing a party?"

"That could be fun," Kurt says. The coffee's not working fast enough to take the weight from his eyelids or the fatigue from his limbs, but it's a comfortable weariness. He's _done_, which is still difficult to believe, for it's taken so many weeks to get here. He slumps down in the seat until his legs are bumping up against Blaine's and he can lean his head against the back of the bench. The burnt orange microsuede was nice to sleep on. He hopes Finn will use sheets, but it's good to know he chose a comfortable enough material for casual napping. The memory foam was a good choice too.

"You could have a naming ceremony for her," Blaine says. He catches Kurt's knee between his own, squeezes a little. "Like for a ship. Break a bottle of champagne over her prow and officially dub her 'Eliza'."

"Only if I can do it with a hoity toity English accent," Kurt says, grinning over the edge of his coffee.

"Well, of course," Blaine says. "She'll be the HMS Eliza."

"So what does the HMS stand for in this context?"

Blaine narrows his eyes and tilts his head in mock-serious thought. "Hummel's Makeover Success."

Kurt laughs. "That's dreadful," he says. "I love it."

"Don't forget to invite Henry Higgins," Blaine says, and offers his coffee in toast. "To a job well done."

Kurt taps the plastic lid of his coffee against Blaine's and drinks to that.

#

Once he's got a belly full of coffee and enough food that he's not queasy with hunger, Kurt feels a desperate need for hygiene. His teeth feel gritty and he's certain he's not smelling very fresh. He locks up Eliza, and he and Blaine take their separate cars back to the Hummel-Hudson residence. Kurt waves Blaine toward the kitchen with, "If you're still hungry or want more coffee, help yourself." And then he drags himself upstairs.

He flosses, brushes his teeth twice, and gargles with Listerine. By the time he's in the shower, the caffeine has infiltrated enough of his blood supply that he's alert and coordinated, even if the fatigue of missed sleep is still hunkered in the back of his mind.

The pressure of the warm spray encourages him to linger, to let the water beat some of the ache from his upper back and shoulders. When he shuts the water off, he's refreshed and relaxed. Kurt towels off, opens the window to let the steam escape, and slips on his light waffle-weave dressing gown. A quick application of hair fudge and he shapes his hair into something casual and tousled that can air dry. He washes the sticky product from his hands and heads to his room to moisturize.

Blaine's there. He's reclined on Kurt's bed, barefoot, flipping through last month's French edition of _Elle_. There are two mugs of coffee on the nightstand and a tray on the bed holding cut peaches and plums, yogurt, and granola. House finches chirp and chatter cheerfully in the tree outside his open window, and his curtains gently sway in the fresh scented breeze. The pale morning sunlight floods the floor and splashes bright over his white bedding. "Hi," Blaine says. "I hope it's okay that I brought the food up."

And Kurt has a moment. It dilates into something that feels like inevitability, a sense that this will always _be_: Blaine in his life, beautiful, wonderful, and constant. With a blink, it soon passes, but it leaves an imprint in Kurt's heart that makes his hands tremble as he absently tightens the belt of his robe. "Yes, of course," Kurt says. "Thank you."

He sees Blaine notice his fidget with the sash. "I can leave while you dress," Blaine says.

Kurt surprises himself by saying, "No." He turns toward his dressing table, and squirts a dollop of his facial lotion onto his fingertips. "Please stay."

Behind him, Blaine says, "All right," and Kurt hears the soft rustle and snap of a magazine page turning.

As he works the product into his skin, Kurt does wonder. Perhaps it's the lingering sense of something more than simple devotion that emboldens him. He's not sure, only that he isn't all that uncomfortable right now. It could be the fatigue combined with the happy buzz of a big project's completion. Regardless, there's an absence of hesitation when he collects the bottle of body cream and opens his robe in order to apply it. His back is still to Blaine, so it's not like he's entirely on display, but the possibility of it doesn't rankle his nerves.

They've both been in boys' locker rooms, so there's really nothing new here, except that this feels nothing like that. Eventually, Kurt takes the robe off so he can reach his back. For a brief nervous moment, he pauses and looks for Blaine's reflection in his mirror, to check his response. Upon Kurt's bed, Blaine appears to be reading the magazine so studiously, it's almost comical. Kurt is standing there, only a few feet away, completely nude, and Blaine's determinedly not looking at him while pretending to be able to read French.

Kurt laughs, and Blaine glances up at the sound. His eyes settle upon Kurt only fleetingly, then they flick away and Blaine fixes his gaze upon Kurt's bookshelf.

The situation doesn't feel particularly sexual, which surprises Kurt, and he discovers that he does want Blaine to feel free to look. And since Blaine is not looking, he worries. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" Kurt asks as he sets the body cream down.

Blaine makes a very unspecific noise. "Not exactly," he says.

Kurt holds his breath for a moment, doesn't move, neither to turn around to face Blaine, nor to go to his bureau for his underwear. When he speaks it comes out softer than he means it too, as if he's sharing a secret: "You can look at me. If you want to."

"Kurt?" Blaine says and Kurt watches his attention slip back, but it doesn't catch on Kurt's body; Blaine meets Kurt's gaze in the mirror.

"I mean, just look. I'm not trying to seduce you again," he says with a wry smile. "It seems silly to kick you out. And I... I don't mind if you see me." _I trust you_, he doesn't say.

"Okay," Blaine says, and he watches Kurt get dressed.

Until Kurt's got his underwear on, it's only a little bit awkward. Blaine's attention upon Kurt is surprisingly light and uncomplicated, not for lack of interest—there's definitely curiosity there, and appreciation—but for lack of intention. Kurt doesn't feel pressed or ogled or judged—or anything more than simply _seen_. And each time Kurt turns to look at Blaine, to see how this is going for him, Blaine's eyes meet his easily, with warmth and surprising gratitude.

Kurt pulls on a pair of jeans, an undershirt, and gets a short sleeved apricot button-up from his closet. Then he moves onto the bed beside Blaine, receives a coffee-scented kiss on his lips and a hot mug of coffee into his hands. "You're lovely," Blaine says, touching Kurt's cheek.

It makes Kurt warm down to his toes. "So, I guess we're planning a party, huh?" Kurt says.

#

It's on a partly cloudy Sunday, hot with a gusty breeze from the east, that they have the party to unveil Eliza. Kurt spends the morning staging the camper. He raises the pop top, opens her doors, and unfurls the orange and white striped awning to shade her open side. Beneath the cover, he sets up the small cafe table and chairs he got for her. The table is vintage, streamlined aluminum, but Kurt replaced the missing glass top with milky white perspex. The chairs are new, funky molded blue acrylic.

Carole, Rachel, and Blaine have been taking care of food, refreshments, and music. There are a half-dozen bottles of sparkling cider chilling, and one bottle of actual champagne. Also, sodas and juice and water. They've brought the gas barbeque from home, and Carole's setting up a buffet table beside it in the shade. Blaine's in the office now, trying to get Kurt's iPod to play through the shop's old speaker system. Rachel is off picking up more ice and a cake from a local bakery.

Kurt drapes a sheet over Eliza's door to hide the scripted name stenciled in black upon her door. His Dad's will be the one to name her formally, but there'll be no breaking of a bottle against her new paint job—just a champagne toast among those who've done the work.

At noon, their friends start arriving: the guys from the shop, most of New Directions, and a few Warblers. Finn and Puck arrive together last, as planned, with Lauren, who does a good job of keeping them both away from the camper until it's time.

Rachel and Mercedes pass out the plastic champagne flutes, and Mike and Tina charge everyone's glasses. His Dad stands at the front of the camper with Finn, Puck, Mitch, Kurt, and Blaine. He gives a short speech about being proud of his boys and their work, and then he pops the cork, pours a few glasses, and pulls away the sheet as he announces her name. They raise their glasses in a toast, and it's official.

Kurt stays close to Eliza after that, showing his friends and guests inside the camper. Finn stands with him, in the shade, grinning broadly and enthusing over how totally awesome everything is, and telling of the plans he and Puck have to take her down to Florida. Kurt gets hugged at least twice by Finn and again, surprisingly, by Puck, who says, "Excellent job, dude, _beaucoup_ thanks."

His Dad works the grill, making turkey dogs and mushroom burgers and vegetable kebabs (Kurt was very specific about the menu). There's a colorful arrangement of mostly low fat vegan salads that are well received, and Kurt really does owe both Rachel and Blaine for their help with them. No one seems to notice the lack of animal products, and Kurt likes that his Dad can eat everything on the table without Kurt or Carole having to supervise him.

The afternoon rolls on into early evening with food and drink, music and laughter and conversation—and an impromptu game of kickball Nick and David instigate. By the time the sky is turning a limpid green-tinged blue, the drinks are running low, the ice has melted, and people are starting to leave, saying their goodbyes in pairs and trios.

Blaine saunters over to the shade of Eliza's awning. He's drinking a Sunkist; and his cheeks, nose, and bare arms glow from the hours of sun exposure. Kurt's sitting in one of the blue acrylic chairs, legs stretched out in front of him, sipping a bottle of tepid water. Finn's gone off to show Mike and Sam something in the garage, and his Dad and Carole are packing up the leftover food and the grill. Rachel and Tina and Mercedes are still around somewhere, but for now, right here beneath the awning, it's just he and Blaine. With a contented sigh, Blaine leans against the edge of Eliza's open door.

"Have you been up in the pop top yet?" Kurt asks. It's been a popular attraction today. Everyone's had a climb up and a stretch out on the mattress. There's some special appeal to the idea of sleeping up high he supposes.

Blaine takes a long pull from his soda and shakes his head. "Not yet," he says. "Are you inviting me to go up there with you now?"

Kurt chuckles at Blaine's suggestive tone. It would be a fun spot for a long lazy make-out, but perhaps not today. "Sure, let me show you," Kurt says.

They take off their shoes and climb up. Kurt goes first and then offers Blaine his hand.

Sitting at the edge of the mattress with their legs dangling down, they look out through the clear vinyl window opposite. They can see over the corrugated iron fence into the empty parking lot of the neighboring lighting warehouse. It's not much of a view here, but it could be elsewhere. There's a cluster of houses farther up the road. Kurt wonders which of them is Henry Higgin's home.

Then Blaine hooks his bare foot behind Kurt's ankle and draws Kurt's attention. Kurt turns to smile at Blaine, and he sees how Blaine's lips are stained bright from the orange soda. Kurt wonders how they taste.

It's nice to wonder. But, sometimes, it's even better to know. Kurt leans in and kisses Blaine, and finds Blaine tastes citrus candy sweet. And Kurt knows, the rest of the summer's going to be fantastic. He wonders what's next.

**the end**


End file.
